


Staring Down a Barrel

by Zasa



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Ending, Angst, Bottom Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, M/M, Pining, Smut, chapter six spoilers, dutch isn't a huge asshole yet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-10-13 00:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 55,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17477609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zasa/pseuds/Zasa
Summary: Dutch saves Arthur from drowning. Now, Arthur must save Dutch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This contains major spoilers for up to the middle of chapter six.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I wrote this out and used an app to convert it into text. Because of that, there may be typos I overlooked.

“Are you all right, son?”

For half a second, Arthur felt the stress of the last week sneaking up on him at once, knotting in his stomach, his throat, drawing tears to his eyes, but then he looked up and met the fury in Dutch's eyes. It had not been a question of concern, but a warning.

***

Hours later, with a boat sinking at their backs and horses scrabbling toward land, Arthur thought he might drown. His chest was on fire. Frigid water stole what breath he had. He couldn't swim for coughing, could no longer see for the water slowly but inevitably rising over his head. He fought it, instinctually over willingly, because with the silence of the river in his ears and the exhaustion in his limbs, he realized he was ready to die its depths. No one would have to bury him. No one would know he had suffered. And most importantly, he would no longer be a burden - unfaithful and unwilling to follow his plans so blindly – to Dutch.

His legs stopped kicking. His hands stopped clawing for the surface. Water surged down his throat, his nose, into his already damaged lungs. He sank.

Something shattered the surface above him, snagged the collar of his shirt, and drew him upward. Then there was air. Before he even knew what had happened, he was gasping for breath, clinging to the warmth at his side to keep his head above water. It was not as easy at he needed it to be, with water and infection in his airways, trying to sink him all over again. 

“Arthur! Arthur, you okay?” 

Dutch. It was Dutch who had one arm around him and another slung across a horse, letting it drag them toward shore. Dutch had saved him.

Arthur couldn't answer. He wheezed for pathetic amounts of air and hacked it all back out. Still drowning when their feet touched shore, Dutch threw Arthur face down into the mud and smacked him between the shoulder blades, refusing to relent even as Arthur’s coughing fit carried on into the minutes.

“What happened?” Charles asked, Arthur managing to catch the panic within it. It was not like Arthur to go down and stay down, not like him to openly struggle. But it had not been like Hosea to die. And he had, right there on the street, at the feet of Pinkertons. After all the loss the gang had already been through…Arthur felt shame for having given up so easily. He tried to rise, to give Charles some comfort, but his arms buckled.

Charles," Dutch said. “Go with Eagle Flies. Get those horses back home. Well meet you at camp.” 

Charles hesitated. “All right. Okay. Just…hang in there, Arthur.”

The coughing eased, but the pain had flared to a level that kept Arthur still and sinking into mud, afraid to move and even more afraid to see the blood he had surely left beneath him.

Arthur heard the horses they’d freed charge off after Charles and Eagle Flies and Dutch whistling for the Count. 

“Can you stand, son?” Dutch asked.

Arthur could only groan in response. Even that began another bout of coughing. 

Dutch eased Arthur onto his side. “We have to move. Someone’s gonna notice that boat before long.”

Even the thought of moving hurt. Arthur attempted to fight Dutch off, ending up lifting only an arm before it dropped back to the mud, useless. 

“Just go on,” Arthur croaked. His lungs rattled; his throat and eyes felt swollen beyond safe standards. He had almost seemingly coughed his heart out and didn’t want Dutch to see the blood it left behind. “Go, I'll catch up.”

“Are you hearing yourself? Now get up and shut”

Dutch yanked him to his feet, the world going black. Arthur assumed clouds had slipped over the moon but found the sky clear when his sight returned. Dutch was trying to push him onto the Count, snapping at him to grab the saddle horn for Christ sakes. He managed, somehow, to get his leg over and get seated in the saddle, leaning almost entirely against the Count’s neck. The horse snorted in protest.  
Dutch Climbed up behind him, arms pinning Arthur’s sides as he took the reins. 

“You all right, son? What happened out there?” He spurred the Count into a trot. The movement made Arthur’s head spin. "Easy there. You're slipping.” Dutch tugged Arthur back by his sodden shirt, until the back of his head rested against Dutch’s shoulder.

“Dutch,” Arthur wheezed, unsure where is he was going with it, knowing only that the little bit of light out tonight was once again fading.

Then his entire body jolted.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, my writing to text app kind of sucks, so please forgive the typos I missed.

“Shit!” Dutch sounded farther off. 

Something thudded by Arthur’s ear. He opened his eyes to see the Count’s hoof pass an inch away from his face. Dutch landed next to him, cradling Arthur’s head as though witnessing how close it had come to becoming pulp. “I-God, Arthur, I could have killed you.”

“Sorry.”

“That's not…are you that cold?”

It was hard to tell, hard to feel anything over the searing ache in his lungs. But he was drenched, and nights here had a tendency to drop to freezing. So, yes, probably. That would explain his teeth chattering.

“We’ll have to make camp. A little farther into the tree line over there.”

“Dutch, no.”

“Won’t be able to make a fire, but we’ll get you warm, son, I promise.”

There was something Dutch’s his voice that settled Arthur. The dismay. It should have the opposite effect, but hearing it now made him realize it had been missing from Dutch’s voice for a while. When Arthur narrowly made it back to came after that asshole Colm captured him, Dutch had looked more surprised than relieved. When Arthur asked if Dutch had planned to come after him, Arthur heard something he ignored. A lie. When Dutch apologized, time and time again, Arthur never saw the emotion in his voice reach his eyes. Arthur had been terrified that Dutch had stopped caring about him.

Dutch peeled Arthur off the ground, hooking Arthur’s arm around his neck to guide him to the trees. Arthur gripped him in a panic at the drop in moonlight, thinking he was losing consciousness again, thinking he should say something to Dutch in case he never woke. Something important, like how much he loved Dutch. Like how Dutch’s support meant more to him than anything else in the world. Like how sometimes he dreamed of kissing him. Making love to him. Growing older with him at his side. No Molly. No Mary. All the things he was too afraid to vocalize knowing he’d later have to look the man in the eyes.

“Dutch, I—” he began to cough

"Save your breath, son.” Dutch said, easing Arthur against a rock. "I'll get my tent up. You hang tight.”

Arthur hacked into his hand, hot blood splattering across his palm. 

Then he was waking up.

“Arthur.” Dutch shook him by the shoulders. “Let’s get you warm.”

The moon was gone, edging the black cloud in front of it with dim white. Raindrops tapped Arthur’s face and Dutch’s body heat surrounded him, offering the first amount of relief Arthur had felt since leaving camp. He leaned into Dutch, head resting on the older man’s shoulder, murmuring something even he could not make out.

Dutch lifted him, dragged him to the mouth of the tent and laid him just out of the rain to pull his boots off. Everything that had worked its way up Arthur’s throat began sliding back down, strangling him. Dutch's hands froze on the buttons of Arthur's shirt. Arthur found him wide eyed, staring at the smear of blood Arthur had wiped off his hand onto is shirt.

“It's nothing Dutch,” Arthur choked out.

Dutch met his eyes, swallowed hard. He continued opening Arthur's shirt, revealing the prominent bones of Arthur’s rib cage. Dutch sat back on his heels, shaking as hard as Arthur. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Dutch said softly.

“Cos’ it's nothin’.”

“I know things are a little tight right now, but don't be afraid to take what medicine we have. I can get us more.”

Arthur waved his hand, trying to wriggle his shoulders from his frigid shirt. He wanted to be dry. Warm. And, after finally seeing Dutch worry over him, he wanted Dutch to stop.

Dutch unlatched Arthur’s belt. Arthur grasped for it, heart leaping, but Dutch was too deep in thought to notice. He yanked Arthur’s pants down to his hips. It was a flashback to a daydream Arthur played in his mind over and over, but this was not how he wanted it to have begun, and the ending, he assumed, would not be so happy, not when his lungs threatened to give. 

“Dutch.”

Dutch's eyes focused. “I'll find you a doctor. The best damn doctor this side of Blackwater. Whatever it is—"

“Already seen a doctor.”

“…and?”

Arthur shivered, whishing he could curl up by a fire and sleep. Dutch got the hint and tugged Arthur’s jeans to his ankles, pulling them off and tossing them into the corner. He lifted Arthur enough to pull his shirt out from under him. Finally, he draped his sleeping bag over Arthur’s waist and reached beneath it to slide off Arthur’s underwear. Arthur was too weak to argue, too exhausted to do anything but shut his eyes as Dutch covered him up, tucking the edges of the blanket under Arthur’s body to keep the heat trapped inside. 

“I got you, Arthur. We’ll figure this out.”


	3. Chapter 3

He couldn't breathe. Waves pulled him to the bottom. The glare of the full moon rippled on the surface of the water, miles away, dotted by shadows of drowning horses. Blood clouded his vision.

He jerked awake to Dutch jostling his foot, and immediately started coughing. Dutch leapt from his spot at the mouth of the tent, holstering his gun. He pushed Arthur up to sitting. This time, he hesitated before slapping Arthur on the back, and when he did, it was with a gentleness Dutch rarely offered. Arthur dropped to his side, overly aware of the skin left unveiled but too sick to fix it. He wanted to be in his cot, beneath his drawn tent where no one could see his weakness. He wanted a fire to warm his skin rather than the fire boiling in his lungs.

Dutch surprised him by rubbing small circles on his back. “It sounded like you were...” Dutch swallowed. “I'm sorry I woke you.”

It sounded to Arthur like he was dying. And he was. God help him, it was happening so fast. He thought he’d have more time. Every time he killed, he lied to himself, thinking he could repent later. Do Good later. Be a better man - an honest man - later. The cold was settling back into his bones, although it likely had never left.

“I'm afraid," he said.

Dutch's hand stilled. “Of what, son?”

Arthur let the rain speak for him, soft patters hitting canvas, landing only to eventually slide into the ground. Returning where it came from, like the dead. He tried to keep the sob in his throat, but it escaped when he said, “dying.”

Dutch yanked his hand away. That was his answer. What was wrong? Something that would take Arthur away. When Dutch replied, his voice was thick. “Oh, Arthur.” He pulled Arthur’s head into his lap, bending over him, trying to dampen the shudder in his stomach. But Arthur could feel him holding something back. A scream or a laugh. It shocked Arthur to realize neither would surprise him. Instead, Dutch whispered. “Fuck. I'm sorry. I am so sorry I haven’t been—"

A sharp breath cut him off. Arthur thought rain had leaked through the tent, but opened his eyes to see Dutch's face over his, crumpled, another tear sliding of his nose onto Arthur’s Cheek.

Arthur managed to get his hand up to Dutch's face. “I...love you.”

"I love you too, my son. I—”

“No," Arthur croaked. “I LOVE you.”

Dutch's breath stalled. Arthur felt another tear hit his face, heard the rain pick up, but everything else was still and silent.

Finally, Dutch spoke a fiercely whispered, “what?” More a demand for an answer than a request for one.

Instantly Arthur regretted having ever spoken. At all. To Dutch. To Hosea. He should have died as a teenager. This felt worse than Hell could ever hope to be.

“I love you,” Arthur repeated, grabbing both sides of Dutch’s face. A chill swept through him, and as his teeth chattered, so did the words: “I love you. I love you. I love—”

“Okay, Arthur….okay.” Dutch pried Arthur’s hands off his face, resting them on Arthur’s bare chest while Dutch felt his forehead. “You’ve got a fever. Try to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

A surge of pain crushed Arthur’s heart and he told himself it was sickness and not love sickness. Dutch had just rejected him, played his confession off, because of course he had. Of course he didn’t want Arthur in any aspect except as a guard, to watch his back, to cover his tracks, to kill and lie and steal for him. And even that was probably over.

Dutch tucked him in, something he hadn’t done even when Arthur could be considered a kid, and now he had done it twice in the same night. Somehow, that didn’t make Arthur feel any better. He almost believed Dutch was trying to get him to sleep so he could sneak away. So he could move the camp. So he could be rid of Arthur like Micha wanted rid of that stray dog.

Arthur couldn’t help it. Between holding every emotion inside since his mother’s death and the weakened state of his body, Arthur began uncontrollably weeping. He lost his first family. Now he was losing his second. This was how life worked for him. He felt love and then had it ripped away.

“Hey.” Dutch squeezed him. “Hey, now. Calm down. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not gonna let anything bad happen to you.”

This feeling—this abrupt abandonment of the will to live—kills, and Arthur knew it. He felt his lungs seizing as soon as he was thinking, _what was the point of all this? What’s the point of it now?_

“Arthur! Calm down, goddammit!”

“M’ sorry,” Arthur gasped, cut off by a cough that vibrated through his whole body. “Whatever I did, whatever I didn’t, I’m—"

“Look at me.” Dutch snagged Arthur’s chin. “And listen. You ain’t done nothin’ wrong. You’re—you’re my—you’re scaring me, son. So just calm down before you make yourself worse.”

He tried, again doing as Dutch asked. That was the normal way of things. He  _was_ the stray dog of the camp, trying to please the one who gave him shelter. Food. Praise. Out of loyalty or stupidity, he wasn’t sure which anymore. He did know that freeing Marston without direct order was like pissing in Dutch’s shoe, and he sure as hell felt like he’d been kicked for it. Kicked by every little word out of Dutch’s mouth after that. Snake, he had called him. But Arthur wasn’t the one killing to kill. Arthur wasn’t the one turning his mistakes into someone else’s, or manipulating their family with promises and bullshit fancy speeches. A dog maybe. But not a blind one.

Arthur sucked in a breath and met Dutch’s eyes. “Fuck you.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dutch shrank back, teeth flashing with a sneer. When he spoke, his words were laced with ice. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"No, I don’t think I did."

"I said fuck you!" Arthur coughed into the crook of his arm, tears pouring down his face. 

Dutch stood, turned to leave, then stalled. Suddenly he was dropping to his knees, pulling Arthur's arm away from his face. "Don’t do this."

"I ain't. This is your doin'." Arthur writhed away from Dutch’s touch. “You told me to help Strauss. You told me—”

“You have to sleep, son. You’re not well.”

“I damn well know I ain’t well.” 

Dutch pinned Arthur’s arms to his sides. Arthur struggled with his last ounce of strength, kneed Dutch’s stomach and threw an elbow. 

Dutch growled. “Just calm down.”

“Just let me die.”

Dutch’s grip wavered. “No.” The ice was gone, his voice cracking instead with what sounded like agony, but Arthur thought it was another trick. A trick like he had pulled on Eagle Flies, telling the poor kid he would help him while telling Arthur he was doing it to cause trouble. “Don’t you ever say that again.”

“Maybe I won’t.” It didn’t matter that Dutch had let him go. The fight had drained out of him, replaced only by the need to close his eyes. His head thrummed with his heartbeat, aching worse with each one. 

Dutch was shaking as he gently raked the hair off Arthur’s sweat-drenched forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

“Like I said,” Arthur began, words hardly a whisper. “’Cos it’s nothin’.”

“That you loved me,” Dutch finished.

Arthur managed a soft, humorless laugh, but couldn’t get his eyes to open or his mouth to work. He was slipping into a sleep that he hoped would be as deep and dreamless and it could get.

He felt Dutch press a kiss to his forehead. “Don’t be afraid,” Dutch whispered. “I got you. I always will.”

*

Arthur grimaced as soon as he woke, waiting for the pain and fatigue explode through him, but he blinked into the filtered sunlight washing across the tent and felt little except the usual tickle in the depths of his chest. Tired, yes, but not exhausted. Not dead. 

He sat up, remembering with unusual detail all the foolish things he had said. How he had cried like a goddamn child. How he had wanted, in the agony and dreariness of the night, to die. A lump lodged into his throat. He swallowed the cough that tried coming free. 

Dutch was gone.

Arthur crawled to the mouth of the tent, shaking from a chill that had not yet passed. The Count stood grazing about fifteen feet off, and the tension in Arthur’s body evaporated. Dutch hadn’t abandoned him. After all that. It felt like an undeserved miracle.

Dutch rounded the corner, hair loose and Arthur’s clothes in hand. “Arthur.” He stopped short. “You’re okay?”

Arthur cleared his throat. “I think so. For now.”

Dutch gave a relieved sigh, kneeling in the wet grass. He titled his head this way and that, studying Arthur’s face. “How did I not notice?”

It was a great question. Arthur had wondered himself if he were truly that invisible to Dutch. If he always had been. Even Micha had noticed well enough to give him a new nickname. Arthur felt heavier just thinking about Micha. “A lot’s been goin’ on,” he said.

Dutch glanced away. “It has, but…” He licked his lips, a rare look of absolute terror shooting across his features. When he met Arthur’s eyes, it was gone. “I still should have seen it. I’m sorry.”

“Eh, it’s all right, Dutch.”

Dutch handed him his clothes, warmed by the sun and smelling like him. All of Arthur now smelled like him. A spark warmed his stomach. Pink rose up his neck.

“You think you can ride?” Dutch asked.

Arthur slid his shirt on over his shoulders, now catching a whiff of sickness from the fabric. Salt and sweat and something that just smelled wrong. Not decay, but maybe the step before it. It made Arthur feel faint. 

“Yeah…” he trailed off, squeezing the bridge of his nose. It felt like the earth was spinning too fast.

Arthur didn’t notice Dutch leaving until he had come back. “Chew on this.” He threaded the stem of a plant between Arthur’s lips, staring at them for a silent moment. “It isn’t much, but it might hold you over until we get there. I can send someone out for a tonic if we don’t have any.”

Arthur moved to stand and Dutch slid his arms under Arthur’s, getting him steady before daring to let go. Arthur was beginning to sweat. “Need help?”

“Getting dressed? Naw.”

“You sound better at least.” Dutch stepped back and Arthur teetered forward. Dutch braced a hand against Arthur’s chest. “Jesus.”

“I’m okay.”

“Let me hold on to you at least while you’re having to stand on one leg. It’d make me feel better.”

Arthur had never been afraid to dress in front of Dutch. In close quarters, there was no helping it at times. Dress, undress, bathe. But he was all bone now. Pale. So obviously on his last leg that he didn’t want Dutch to see just how weak that leg was. He was meant to be the strongman. Now, he was nothing.

Arthur dropped the bedroll from around his waist and bent just enough to hook a foot into his underwear, then the other. Halfway up his thighs he had to pause. Without a second thought, Dutch took hold and pulled them the rest of the way up.

“What’re you grinnin’ bout?” Arthur asked.

Dutch pursed his lips, but the smile was still in his eyes. “You’re red as beet.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Dutch laughed this time, rolling Arthur’s pantlegs up so he could easily step into them. He buttoned them at the waist while Arthur buttoned his shirt, burning at the ears. 

Dutch packed the tent and climbed onto the Count, holding a hand out for Arthur. He rose from where he’d been sitting and settled behind Dutch.

“Hold on tight,” Dutch said, nudging the Count forward. 

Arthur gripped Dutch’s hip bones. 

“Tighter.” Dutch glanced over his shoulder, a gleam in his eye. “I don’t want you fallin’ off again.”

Arthur sighed, but pulled himself closer, chest to back, and wrapped his arms around Dutch’s waist. His chin met Dutch’s shoulder, soft hair brushing his cheek. 

“Atta, boy.”

“Stop,” Arthur muttered, heat returning to his ears.


	5. Chapter 5

Dutch pulled the Count to a stop just before the river that coursed between the old mine shaft and camp. Arthur had almost fallen asleep, would have if not for Dutch's speed. Every few minutes, Dutch had glanced back. Everytime Arthur's grip loosened, he asked if Arthur was okay. Dutch ended up using one hand for the reins and the other to hold Arthur's arms to his stomach as if fearing he would simply slip away when he wasnt looking. Arthur ended up leaning so heavily on Dutch that when Dutch jumped out of the saddle Arthur nearly went with him. 

Dutch whipped his pistol out, shooting Arthur a wink before sneaking the way they had come. 

"What're you doin'?" Arthur asked, to which Dutch replied with a shush motion. 

Arthur waited, the Count getting more aggravated as the minutes passed. A shot rang out, startling him and the horse both. He patted the Count's side. "Easy, boy."

Dutch retuned with a quicker step and a rabbit dangling in one hand. He handed it to Arthur as he climbed back into the saddle. "Breakfast." 

He spurred the Count through that shallow part of the stream and up the incline toward camp. Already Arthur could hear the soft chatter of his family and the snap or fire. He eased away from Dutch and Dutch said nothing except to answer Sadie's question.

"Hold up. Who's there?"

"Arthur and Dutch!"

She popped her head out into the rock pathway their horses had trampled into the earth. "Charles just went out looking for you two. He seemed real worried."

"Everything is fine." The statement rang false by the time Dutch got to its end. 

"Well...I'm glad you're okay, Arthur."

"Thanks, Sadie." The urge to cough was stirring in Arthur’s throat again. He held it back, horribly aware that he might have already infected Dutch by coughing in his tent all night, but didn’t want to risk doing it any more. That thought mixed with the attempt to swallow his coughs brought a dangerous amount of moisture to his eyes. He glanced away from everyone that turned toward the sound of the Count’s hoofs stomping through camp. Dutch took them all the way to Arthur’s tent before stopping. 

Ms. Grimshaw started fussing until she saw Arthur. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly that stopped her short, and something in her expression told him he didn’t want to know. Dutch took the rabbit and Arthur jumped off the Count, knees buckling. He caught himself on his clothes chest before face-planting in the dirt, but not before everyone close by had seen him do it. He cleared his throat and stumbled to his cot. 

“Rough ride,” he joked, but Dutch’s face was dark.

Dutch swiveled toward Pearson just as he made it to Arthur’s tent, pushing the rabbit in his hands before Pearson could open his mouth. “Cook this for Mr. Morgan, will you?”

“Uh, sure.”

Dutch wiped the blood on his pants and mounted the Count. Somehow, his eyes seemed cold as they washed over Arthur. It was like the night had never happened. “I’ll be in Saint Denis,” he told the gathering crowd, and kicked the Count into a gallop, throwing dust as he vanished.

John raised his eyebrows at Arthur. “He’s still as secretive as ever, huh?”

“Guess so.”

Abigail crossed her arms. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur said. “Just didn’t sleep too good last night.”

“I’ll wake ya when Pearson has your food ready.” Ms. Grimshaw strode toward the the pot, Uncle stumbling into her and dropping his beer bottle with a giggle that was very un-Uncle like. He was too drunk to notice Arthur, which was the one blessing of the day. Second, actually, because Micah was no where to be seen.

“Sleep,” John said. “I’ll watch your back.”

“I know you will. I should go find Charles though.”

“I’ll go.” Sadie rounded the corner, voice usually gruff but her eyes unusually soft. “Do us all a favor and relax so we can stop worrying, hear me?”

Arthur breathed a laugh, regretting it as soon as it pulled wet coughs from his lungs. He grimaced and looked at his feet. “Yeah, I hear ya.”

Arthur was surprised to find how quickly sleep took him, even as Dutch’s frigid expression haunted him once he closed his eyes.

*

Someone nudged Arthur’s cot. He was slow to wake, startlingly so. Normally he kept his gun within arm’s reach, even at camp, (especially at camp) but his hand only groped air before he opened his eyes and saw it was only Ms. Grimshaw. 

“Your dinner, Mr. Morgan.”

“Thank you.” He took the bowl. It was steaming and filled to the brim with tender meat and some kind of broth, warming Arthur’s stomach before he even took a bite. He passed a glance over Dutch’s tent. Over the last several campsites, Dutch had set his tent up father and farther away from Arthur. It was only now that he noticed it. He lost his appetite, but ate as Ms. Grimshaw watched. 

“Dutch back yet?” He asked through a full mouth.

“Not yet.”

“Charles and Sadie?”

“Would you stop worrying, Mr. Morgan. You’re gonna make yourself sicker.” She slammed a tonic on his table. “Take this when you’re done.”

Arthur smirked to himself. “Okay. I appreciate all this.”

“Mhm, well, just feel better, Arthur. This camp can’t run without you, especially while Dutch is...never mind. Just feel better.”

Dutch. Jesus, had he really told Dutch he loved him? It could have been a fever dream, but then Dutch had...teased him? Arthur emptied his bowl, drinking every drop of the broth before handing it to Susan. She nodded in approval and left him to his embarrassing thoughts, just in time to miss the heat climbing his neck.

He was such a damn fool. Things had already gone beyond repair with Dutch, he feared, even before his admittance. Now, there was no hope in hell. Dutch was probably off picking up women to get the calloused feel of Arthur’s skin out of his head.


	6. Chapter 6

A dark moonless night had overtaken New Hanover. Wind brought a sharper chill than all the nights previously, and Arthur regretted not packing a coat. He used to run hot until all the padding in his body vanished after Guarma. Perhaps his struggles on the island could have been more attributed to tuberculosis than having narrowly survived a shipwreck. 

Dutch had been so relieved to see him. After that...

Arthur released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. A dim glow piercing the darkness let him know he was close to camp. He had gotten lucky. The Murfree Brood must have tucked in early for the night.

He dropped a buck on Pearson’s counter, wheezing as he did and wanting to get away before Pearson could show up to hear it. Karen drunkenly greeted him from the scout fire as he made his way to the river to wash off. The water was cold enough to hurt. 

He coughed to clear his lungs as well as he could, assuming the sound of the river would give him enough cover.

“Well, well.”

Arthur straightened. Sighed. Coughed. “Micah.”

“Our very own resident black lung as returned.”

Arthur tried ignoring him but felt Micha moving closer. If he’d been on watch, and probably had if he was down by the river, he had a gun. Arthur craned his neck to see a rife primed and ready in Micah’s grip. It was at least aimed toward the sky.

“Is there something you want?”

“A whiskey’d be nice. A Cuban cigar. A table full of rich idiots that don’t know the rules of poker. Or maybe just the money you’ve been stealing.”

This brought Arthur to his feet, fists clenched. He was still taller than Micah if not broader, but Micah never flinched in any situation. It infuriated Arthur while somehow pleasing him. If this was Dutch’s new right hand man, at least he had the stones he’d need to help get Dutch’s crazy plans on track.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about.”

“Easy there, cowpoke. You might blow another vessel in your eyes. Startin’ to look like you’ve been hangin’ around those good time turtle cult fellows.”

“I said, what the hell are you talkin’ about? I ain’t stole nothing. I’m the one that’s been supplying the camp while you’ve been sitting on your ass playing leader with Dutch.”

“Now, there’s no need to be Jealous, Arthur.”

Arthur could have broken his jaw. That same line had come from Dutch’s mouth just the other day and almost knocked him to his ass. Jealous? Dutch really thought his concern was born from jealousy? He must really think Arthur a fool.

“I’ve given every goddamn cent I have to this camp, and look what good it did! We’re holed up by a cave reeking of the dead because you’ve wormed your way in Dutch’s head. You’re ideas are shit, Micah. They always have been. We’re here because of—”

Bad time to cough, but Arthur was doing it anyway. It infuriated him more, so that by the time he stopped, his fists were clenched and a film of red surrounded his vision. Micah was laughing. 

“You,” Arthur finished, which made Micah laugh harder.

He knew it was a stupid idea, but he wanted to feel Micah’s neck snap under his hands. He lurched at Micah, fast enough to grip his shirt and pin the gun between them. He reared a fist back—

And suddenly he was hitting the ground, cheek bone aching. 

“You’re getting slower, black lung.”

“You son of a—”

“Micah!”

That voice felt like a punch to the gut. Arthur looked up to see Dutch storming down the path. 

“What are you two doing? This is no time to be acting like children.”

Dutch grabbed Arthur by the elbow and yanked him off the ground. Micah narrowed his eyes at this. Dutch’s eyes flickered from Arthur’s eyes to the gash Micah’s knuckle had ripped into his cheek. Then he was pretending like he never saw it.

“You’re supposed to be keeping watch,” Dutch told Micah.

“Well, I was, and I just happened to find this stashed in Arthur’s saddlebag.” He unfolded a stack of money, fanning it out. “Two hundred and three dollars. That’s what you said was missin’ from the box, wasn’t it, boss?”

Dutch’s eyes returned to Arthur, and Arthur didn’t miss the sudden overwhelming distrust in them.

“Why were in you my saddlebag?” Arthur demanded, lurching for the stack of money which Micah jerked out of reach. “I just robbed a stagecoach and had three hundred in there. Where’s the rest?”

“Uh huh,” Micah frowned at Dutch. “That’s convenient. And even if that were true, why’s it still in his bag?”

“I had a deer. My hands were full.”

“You went out huntin’?” Dutch interrupted.

“And then so what?” Arthur continued. “I can put it in the pot when I damn well please.”

Dutch snatched the money from Micah’s hands. “Get back to work. Arthur, with me. Now.”

Arthur slung the water off his hands with a grumble, following Dutch up the incline. The women were around the fire, singing as Javier plucked his guitar. It was the first normal thing they’d done since leaving Shady Belle. Dutch led Arthur to his tent and pulled the flaps down behind him.

Dutch struck a match on his boot and lit the small lamp beside the bed. It shadowed the lines striking through Dutch’s forehead. He glanced at Arthur, then at the money. “I never thought you’d keep secrets.”

Arthur couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I ain’t. I’m tellin’ you I got that money off a coach and that rat bastard stole—”

“I talked to the doctor in Saint Denis,” Dutch blurted. It shut Arthur up. “Thought that would be the best bet finding something to help you. But the doctor remembered you.” The anger had slipped from Dutch’s expression, but not the frustration. “He told me what he told you. What you’ve known.”

Arthur bristled.

“You’ve been lying’ to me, Arthur.” Now there was something in Dutch’s tone that sapped Arthur of defensiveness. Tears glinted in his eyes. Arthur’s knees went weak. “TB.”

Arthur swallowed. “TB,” he agreed.

Dutch slammed into him, knocking the air out of his lungs and wrapping him in a hug. Arthur froze. Dutch’s fingers dug into his shirt. A shudder worked through Dutch’s body. “Damn it. Damn it all.”

“I’ll do my best to get you and everyone else enough money to live on,” Arthur said into Dutch’s neck. Dutch’s grip tightened. “I ain’t stealing, Dutch. I ain’t got nowhere to go.”

Dutch pulled back just far enough to see Arthur’s face. Tears ran down Dutch’s. “I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. Not without you.”

“You did it before me. You’ll do it after just fine.”

“Listen to me.” Dutch took Arthur’s face in his hands, thumb trailing the bruise beginning to darken his cheek. “That doctor told me about a sanatorium out West.”

Arthur frowned. “So?”

“So,” Dutch balked, eyes flicking between Arthurs, wide and begging. “It may be your only chance.”

“What can they do except put me in a bed and wait for me to die?”

“You need rest, Arthur. Rest, good food, and fresh air.”

“If I got west I’ll die for sure. Those fools in Blackwater shoot on sight. And there’s no promise I’ll get better West anyway. I’d still be dying, just alone.”

Dutch dropped his head to Arthur’s shoulder, swallowing hard and breathing harder. His hands were kneading Arthur’s back again. “Shit. Shit.” Dutch shook with something Arthur heard but couldn’t believe. A sob. 

“It’s okay, Dutch.” Arthur finally hugged him back.

“Okay? Nothin’ about this is okay. And it’s all my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Arthur said, even though he had told Dutch the very opposite last night. “Stop cryin’, or you’re gonna get me started.”

“Hosea would be so disgusted with me. I’m disgusted with me. I was supposed to take care of you.”

“You have.”

“I’m a shit father and...” Dutch looked up, “a worse friend.”

“You’re—” 

Dutch kissed him.

It shocked Arthur into a stillness that reached all the way to his heart. Dutch’s soft, warm lips. Dutch’s rough hands gripping his hips. Something in Arthur snapped. He ripped away. 

Dutch’s eyes widened. His mouth gaped. It was the the poster-child expression of shock, and Arthur assumed it was because he had pulled away, but then Dutch was looking at his own hands like they had betrayed them. 

“Arthur...I’m sorry. I don’t know why...”

Arthur knew. It was because he had told Dutch he loved him and then Dutch learned he was dying. A pity kiss. Arthur didn’t want to believe it, but it was the only thing that made sense. Dutch had loved Annabel. Maybe loved Molly. But he had never even hinted at liking another man until he was kissing Arthur. It felt somehow like Dutch was using Arthur’s confession against him. 

Arthur pushed Dutch out of his way and rushed out of the tent, retreating to his own. The singing faltered as Arthur passed the main campfire, but he didn’t trust himself to look their way without a pained glint in his eyes.

He pulled his tent flaps down around him and leaned against the wagon, trying to catch his breath. He touched his lips, still damp from Dutch’s kiss.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys SO much for all the lovely comments and kudos. I appreciate every one. You guys keep me going <3 
> 
> (Also, I got the epilogue last night. This game has been my favorite ever, as you might can tell.)

The day was muggy. It was Arthur's first thought. The heat and dampness had invaded his lungs, turned them weak and sticky. He rolled on his side and coughed, hoping no one was close by to hear it, but when the itch subsided there there was Dutch's voice carrying through his tent, too distant to make clear but close enough for him to have heard Arthur wake. 

Arthur changed into a simple button-up and his lightest pair of pants, leaving the buttons at the top of the shirt undone and the collar splayed. Sweat glistened in his skin. He knew he was dying, but somehow the realization was worse this morning. His fever would cook his brain or his lungs would give up the ghost or maybe Dutch would slide a knife between his ribs and put him out of his misery. 

Dutch ignored Arthur's emergence, sitting at the table by his tent with a map sprawled in front of him. Of course Micah sat to his right. Arthur had intended to ignore Dutch as wel, but curiosity got the better of him. Mostly it was the intensity of Dutch's expression that drew him closer. Dutch stiffened but didn't look up. 

"And then New York," he was saying. "Maybe. I don't know."

Arthur opened his mouth. Coughing cut him off, wet and insistent, forcing him to bend over. Blood or phlegm or part of his lung hit his palm. He tucked his hand into his pocket so he wouldn't have to see it and moved toward the opposite edge of camp like a dog with his tail between his legs. 

Bill said something. Micah said something. Dutch fell silent.

John strode from his tent and caught up to Arthur, hand hovering over his back like he wanted to help but couldn't decide whether hitting him would be the best option. 

"M' fine," Arthur croaked. 

"Yeah, all right," John said, sounding defensive. 

Arthur reeled in the bite in his tone, shaking his head like he was trying to get Dutch out. He could feel the man's eyes now that his back was turned.

"Did something happen?" John followed him to the stew pot, keeping his voice low. 

"What'd ya mean?"

"I dont know. Like...well, some folk saw you talkin' to Dutch last night is all. I'm on edge. Me and Abigail. The girls said you looked angry when you came out of his tent."

Arthur had stopped in his tracks. Whatever was cooking no longer smelled edible. 

"What did he say?" John continued. 

"He said..." it was hard to remember. All Arthur could think about was Dutch's warm lips, the feel of his mustache on his skin and his hands on his hips. "He said he'd been a bad father."

John grinned. "All fathers seem to be bad, but he's a standard even I'll never sink to. That bastard used us. Groomed us to take orders. And what does he do when we start thinkin' for ourselves? He makes us out the problem. Not him. Never him."

Arthur stared at his boots, both caked in so much dirt that they looked brown instead of black. Things had been too crazy to even think about cleaning up. Most times he forgot to eat if Pearson didn't have stew waiting. His self-care had all but dropped into non-existence. Maybe that was part of his problem. Maybe it wasn't all TB.

John rubbed his chin, glaring toward the table. Arthur risked a glance to find Bill and Micah heading off to their usual lurking spots while Dutch rolled up the map. Plan made, he guessed, but he wouldn't learn what it entailed until he was in the path of a thousand bullets. Maybe this one would end with the whole army joining the Pinkertons to take the gang down. Nothing surprised him anymore. Nothing except that kiss, that is.

"You think he used us when we were younger?" Arthur asked.

"When we were younger? He never stopped. Look at us. He's got us so wrapped around his finger we're still here discussing when to leave instead of just doing it." John dropped his voice to just above a whisper. "Speakin' of."

"Boys," Dutch said upon passing. It held the same warning it had when they were younger and Dutch caught them doing something he didn't like. Apparently, they were no longer allowed to talk to each other. 

Arthur meant to greet him, but found Dutch's name getting stuck in his throat. John headed off, back toward his tent. It all seemed as sketchy as Dutch's private talks with Micha had. He supposed they were technically up to something. If Dutch found out he had been trying to talk people into leaving, Arthur figured he'd find that knife in his back sooner.

Now that he realized he hadn't eaten since the rabbit Dutch got him, the stew was back to making his stomach rumble. He took a breath (ignoring how strained it felt and sounded) and followed Dutch to the pot.

"What was all that about?" Arthur kept his voice flat. 

Dutch paused, ladle dangling from his hand, dripping broth onto the grass. "I could ask you the same question."

"Just talkin'. But you sound like you're makin' a big plan and I ain't invited to know."

Dutch turned on him. "What do you want to know?"

The repressed rage behind the words stopped Arthur short. "I ain't questionin' you, Dutch. I just wanna know what's going on."

"You are questioning me if you don't trust me to have your best interest in mind."

"It ain't that."

"Then what is it?"

"It's...it's everyone else." Arthur held Dutch's eyes, something that still sometimes took more courage than he could muster. "I'm dying, Dutch. Don't matter what happens to me. But--"

Dutch dropped his bowl at Arthur's feet. "Shut up."

"I'm only sayin'--"

"Shut your goddamn mouth!" Dutch stormed past him, the whole camp turning to watch him go. "I know what I'm doing!" He shouted at them all. "I'm going to get us out of here, but if any of you fools don't have faith in me then just go! Leave! I don't need you!"

Arthur's heart was galloping. He felt it all the way in his fingertips, watching Dutch slip into his own tent and punch a fist through the stack of books on his table. They scattered. Arthur felt true terror for the first time that day. Dutch was angry because he'd been caught. There was no plan, none that Dutch truly believed in, and if there was, if there was any true end to this nightmare, it was one that would leave more of the gang dead than alive.


	8. Chapter 8

"You're breaking Dutch's heart." Javier had crept from the woods directly behind the hitching posts. 

Arthur glanced at him as soon as Dutch cinched his tent shut, leaving the camp to worry about their leader's sanity. Arthur pulled the guilt out of his expression. "How long you been standin' there?"

"Long enough," Javier said, stepping close enough for Arthur to smell his brand of cigarette smoke.

"Listen, just leave John out of your mouth, okay? He's got a kid. He's allowed to worry."

Javier lifted a hand in a placating manner, but his other was still wrapped around his rifle. "Fine, but what about you, Arthur?"

"What about me?"

"Micah has a good plan. Dutch agrees. Are you gonna turn on us before we get it done?"

Arthur growled under his breath, closing the short distance between him and Javier. "I got Dutch's back. Micah's...Micah's gonna get us killed and Dutch knows it."

Javier narrowed his eyes. "Whatever. Just worry about that cough."

Arthur clenched his fists, willing himself to keep them at his sides. It wasn't with Javier where his true frustrations lay. Breaking his jaw would only rile Dutch up more. Arthur wasn't sure he had the strength anymore, anyway.

"Oh, I'm plenty worried. Thanks."

Arthur went to his horse, needing to get away. Let Dutch cool off. Let himself cool off. But with the reins in his hand he noticed a blue tint at the base of his nail beds. It startled him into stillness. He supposed time had always been limited, but seeing it coming to a close...he dropped the reins. Who knew when death would take him? It could be TB or he could leave here and get hit by a train. He had to do something. He had to do it now.

A closed tent was as effective as a 'Do Not Disturb' sign. It meant what it said, but in emergencies, some things could be ignored. This was an emergency. 

Arthur stormed toward Dutch's tent, catching worried glances as he passed through camp. Some said, 'don't do anything stupid', while the majority held the simple plea, 'help us.' 

Micah had placed himself in the chair just outside Dutch's tent, his smirk growing as Arthur approached. Grin all you want, you bastard, Arthur thought. They both knew confronting Dutch now would shunt Arthur onto Dutch's shit list, and while maybe Micah couldn't see it, Arthur thought it a much better list to be on so long as Micha was giving orders to Dutch's new right-hand men.

Arthur shoved the tent flaps aside, stepping into the shadowed interior and letting the canvas settle behind him. Dutch sat on his bed, elbows on his knees, palms empty and facing up like he'd been holding his head. Now Dutch's head was up.

"Oh, Arthur."

Something--the crack in Dutch's voice or the wetness of his eyes--stopped Arthur short or grabbing Dutch's shirt collar and slamming into the wall as he had intended. Instead, his arms went lax at his sides. Dutch's mouth worked, testing out silent words, but Arthur put a finger to his own lips before Dutch could say anything. He nodded toward the spot Micah had taken just outside. Dutch looked at the tent flap. Nodded. 

Arthur sat beside him. "You'll figure it out, Dutch," he whispered. "You always do."

Dutch stared ahead, running his hands down his face, leaving red streak in their wake. he sighed so hard the bed shifted. "I'm sorry," he said so softly Arthur almost missed it.

"Ain't nothin' to be sorry for."

"I don't feel like myself." Dutch looked at him, making Arthur realize how close he had sat to him. He could smell coffee on Dutch's breath, could smell the sweat in his shirt. "But you. You bring me back every time."

Arthur swallowed. "You're a good man. I know you are."

"I've not been as of late."

"As of late none of us have had the chance. We've been too busy trying to stay ahead of the Pinkertons. It's not your fault."

"Even before that, I'm afraid."

"Well," Arthur grabbed his shoulder. "You're still alive, aren't ya? There's time to fix it."

Dutch said nothing, lost in some thought that brought a deep line between his brows. His eyes were locked on Arthur's lips again. Arthur fidgeted.

"Whatever you need," Arthur said, "I'm here."

Dutch squeezed the hand Arthur had placed on his shoulder, took his free hand to rest it on Arthur's leg, tentatively. It wasn't that strange. Dutch could be touchy-feely when he wanted, but the question in Dutch's eyes had Arthur burning hot in a second. 'Is this okay?' it asked.

Dutch leaned in. Arthur closed the distance.

Dutch was instantly parting his lips, working Arthur's open, gripping the back of Arthur's head like he was going to vanish if Dutch let him go. Electric shocks shot through Arthur's body, his own hands settling on Dutch's waist before tangling in the chains that hung from his vest. He felt alive. More alive than he had even when he'd been healthy. 

Dutch was gripping him tighter, moving inch by inch until he had his leg over Arthur's, until he was nearly in his lap. Arthur was hard. It had happened to so quickly that he didn't notice it until his pants were straining at the zipper. He grabbed Dutch's ass, digging his nails in so hard he thought he heard the fabric rip. That's what made Arthur pull away.

"Shit," he gasped. His lips ached. Dutch's were redning, joining the blush that had crept across his face. They panted against each other. 

"I'm sorry," Dutch said again, but this time there was a predatory undertone in the apology. "But as long as you're okay with this, I can't stop now."

"Then don't."

Dutch yanked him into another kiss.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, Mom.
> 
> I wrote this to the song "Detroit and Only Halfway Thru the Tour". It has major horny energy and fitting lines like: "I'm a lover not a fighter but I love it when you want me to fight" and "I am sexually enlightened don't be frightened I know just what to do." Because in my mind Dutch has never been with a man before.
> 
> ;)

Arthur slammed Dutch onto his own bed, the whole thing trembling, Dutch's mouth opening against his, a moan slipping when the hard line of Dutch's cock caught Arthur's.

Arthur was dizzy again, but it was the dizziness that accompanied reaching the impossible. Dutch pinned under him, loosening Arthur's belt, biting his bottom lip until there was blood. That was impossible. But here he was, a fire bursting through him at the sight of Dutch's half-lidded eyes an inch from his.

Dutch unzipped Arthur's jeans, warm hand brushing even hotter skin, pulling Arthur free of his underwear. Arthur jerked. Froze. Gritted his teeth. If he came with just a graze of Dutch's hand, he was doomed. 

Dutch shoved Arthur away to get his own pants down to his hips, cock springing free. Arthur stopped breathing, gave a croaked, "Jesus." Dutch dragged him by his collar back to his lips, thrusting against Arthur's stomach. 

"Micah..."

"Don't ruin this, Arthur."

"Micah's right outside."

"I don't give a fuck."

Fact was, the tent failed at giving any privacy, no matter how close someone was. The gap between the front flaps widened in any sort of breeze. Anyone that looked could see what was happening inside. Still, Arthur slid further up Dutch's body until their length's touched, Arthur's slick and painful, worsening at the feel of Dutch's. Arthur pinned Dutch's wrists over his head and wrapped a hand around their cocks, hand-fucking both of them at once, Dutch arching off the bed.

"Fuck, Arthur," Dutch gasped, and Arthur slammed their mouths together, bruisingly so, hoping to God no one had heard. How would he explain it? He wouldn't. He couldn't. He wanted to fuck Dutch until the man fainted from screaming his name. How do you tell someone that?

Dutch came. It shocked Arthur, almost made his stop, but then Dutch was fucking up into his hand, rutting against his erection to get every bit of pleasure possible, and then Arthur was cumming too.

He stifled the scream, just barely, cum shooting hard enough to hit Dutch's swollen lips. Dutch watched him ride through his orgasm. Licked his lips as Arthur watched. Arthur collapsed, lungs shrieking with every breath. But damn it was worth the pain. He tucked his face into the crook of Dutch's neck, feeling the older man's pulse hammering through his skin. They trembled with the aftershocks, a hoarse laugh rumbling from Dutch's chest.

Had that just happened?

Arthur sat up slowly, noting the white smears on Dutch's black vest. Shame turned his skin hotter. He released Dutch's hands, shook his dominant one to get the feeling back into it. His body thrummed with joy and dismay and terror. Terror that the shit-eating grin on Dutch's meant he had caught Arthur, caught him at his weakest and would use it against him.

"I'm sorry." Arthur stood so quickly the world spun.

Dutch's smile dropped. He snagged Arthur's hand just as Arthur had been turning to leave. "Don't leave me now, you asshole."

Arthur thought he was going to be the one fainting. He couldn't catch his breath, and worrying whether it was a panic attack or his last gasping breaths in the grasp of TB brought out more panic until tears pricked his eyes. He had panic attacks before, ones dragged out by seeing his son's grave. For some reason, that memory shout through him like a lightning strike. 

Dutch sat up, rigid. "Woah, what's wrong? Arthur, talk to me. This is what you wanted, wasn't it?"

He wanted a lot of things. And usually, when he got them, he lost them. "I'm sorry, Dutch. I'm sorry. You gave me so much and I... I'm taking from you. I'm sorry."

Dutch tucked himself back into his pants, rising quickly before Arthur could run and wrapping him in a hug, one in which Arthur was too defeated to find the strength to return.

Dutch pulled back enough to meet Arthur's eyes. "You haven't taken anything from me. You're so good to me. You've always done right. I wanted this, too."

"I'm dyin'."

"We're all dying." Dutch's voice had dropped to a tone that verged on begging. It made Arthur feel worse. "It doesn't mean we don't deserve love."

Dutch grabbed his chin, hesitated to see if Arthur was going to pull away, and then pulled their lips together when he didn't. Arthur's shoulders unknotted. He gave into the kiss, letting it bury his dark thoughts deeper. Arthur ended up anchoring his fingers in Dutch's curls, growing hard all over again. 

"I have a plan," Dutch mumbled against his lips.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"We're making it out of this. All of us. Alive."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the people that are worried, TB is an airborne illness, so kissing and all that good stuff doesn’t spread it. Coughing does, though, which means Dutch has probably gotten into contact with it, anyway. I don't make the rules I just cry about em.

“Ride with me, Arthur.”

Arthur looked up from the fire, somewhat dazed by Javier’s song despite the language barrier. For the first time in weeks everyone had gathered at the fire for dinner, and because people were watching, Arthur ate more than he had room for. It left him warm and groggy. Lenny and Hosea’s absence had left a hole in his heart, but at times like these, when the family gathered in companionable silence, he felt them right along with the others.

“Sure.” Arthur rose, ignoring the wary look from John and Abigail. He would have to give them some kind of explanation later. Abigail saw him retreat from Dutch’s tent yesterday, and Arthur, too frazzled, too embarrassed, and too covered in Dutch’s cum, hadn’t the strength to even spare her a comforting glance. He had washed in the river, taken his horse and spent the rest of the day clearing some of the Murfree brood from around the surrounding area, trying to buy them more time, trying to take some of the stress off Dutch’s shoulders. He had returned to camp when everyone usually turned in for bed. Dutch had been gone the next morning and just come back an hour ago. Arthur had trouble slowing his heart rate when he rode up.

Dutch glanced back to make sure Arthur was following and mounted the Count. Arthur’s heart was racing again, his hands slick. He got on his horse and followed the Count up the ridge.

“Where we goin’, Dutch?” He called.

“Hush, son, and enjoy the ride.”

*

Van Horn was a town for the low-life’s like himself, gracious enough to not care about the price on Arthur’s head if they happened to recognize him. Dutch stopped the Count in front of the town’s post office, struggling to conceal a grin that got Arthur’s blood pressure spiking. Arthur hitched his horse and joined Dutch at the door opposite the post office window. 

Dutch opened the door to a room, curtains drawn and bed freshly made. “After you.”

Arthur’s skin was tingling. His pants were already straining at the zipper. He felt like he had as a teenager, his thoughts occupied more by sex than survival. He was lucky, in a way, that he had lost his journals in Blackwater. 

The door shut and Arthur turned to find Dutch already popping the buttons of his vest. “I thought about you all night,” he said, voice dropping an octave. 

Arthur froze like a deer in the path of a train. Dutch stripped in front of him, exposing his toned chest, his soft stomach, dropping his shirt on the floor and working at the button on his pants. He grinned. “What’s wrong, boy?”

“You’re so...you’re...” Arthur reached out and ran a hand down Dutch’s chest, heart leaping into his throat. “So damn sexy.”

Surprise flashed across Dutch’s face before the smile returned, this one warmer than the last. He pushed Arthur’s suspenders off his shoulders, kicking off his own boots as he did. His hands had a tremble Arthur thought he’d never see. Dutch had the steadiest hand of them all, no matter the situation. Somehow, this scared him. Arthur took his hand, kissed his fingers, his wrist, his inner elbow, ending with a kiss pressed to Dutch’s jugular. Dutch was shaking harder by the end of it all, and Arthur released a nervous laugh. 

“Sorry,” Arthur said.

“Don’t be.”

Arthur slipped his fingers into Dutch’s waistband, tugging his pants to his knees. He watched Dutch’s cock twitched against the fabric of his underwear. Arthur felt that electric feeling again, like nerve endings miss-firing all at once. It nearly brought him to his knees. Which wasn’t a bad idea, now that he thought about it.

“I’ve never been with a man,” Dutch blurred, eyes widening as though shocked to hear himself speak. “I mean, yesterday...yesterday was the closest I’ve been to...” He trailed off. Swallowed hard enough to hear. 

“Don’t be nervous,” Arthur whispered. 

“I’m not nervous,” he said, and as convincing as it sounded, Arthur could see it wasn’t true. “I just want this to be good for you.”

“It will be. I’m with you, ain’t I?”

“Didn’t think you’d be this sappy about it.”

Arthur tugged his Dutch’s boxers down, white skin flashing. “Shut up,” Arthur said. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, boy.”

“Then shut up and I won’t have to.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed, anger shooting lines through his forehead. It was a look Arthur was familiar with, seen before Dutch pulled the trigger on men he had the most desire to kill. A chill squeezed his stomach and shot into his pants. He dropped to his knees and took Dutch into his mouth so quick Dutch’s knees buckled. 

“Jesus shit, Arthur.” Dutch grabbed his head, breaking into a moan that used what his lungs had left. He eased his grip and stopped moving.

Arthur pulled off his dick and looked him in the eye, which made Dutch’s pupils blow wide. “I ain’t gonna break,” Arthur said.

So Dutch gripped him by the hair and shove his dick to the back of Arthur’s throat, thrusting hard enough to make Arthur’s jaw ache and throat constrict, and Arthur felt himself come to life all over again.

“Arthur, you feel so fucking good.”

Arthur hummed, gripping Dutch suddenly and violently by the balls. Dutch froze. Arthur broke free. “Don’t cum yet,” he warned.

“Oh, I won’t,” Dutch said. “I’ve got plans for you, boy.”

“You know what you’re doing?’ Arthur asked lightly.

Dutch gave him a light slap on the cheek. “No.”

“Then get on the bed and relax.”

Dutch seemed to bristle at this. He eyed the bed but hesitated, probably trying to decide whether to let Arthur take control again or show him who’s really in charge. Dutch pushed Arthur to the floor and stepped around him, shedding the pants from his ankles and lying back on the bed. “Get up here then, and let me fuck you.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur said, and Dutch visibly twitched. 

“I bought this, uh, stuff.” Dutch pulled a bottle out of the nightstand, but his eyes watched Arthur undress. “It says it’s for...lubrication for...stuff.”

“Huh,” Arthur mused, taking it. “Better than gun oil.”

“Yeah, that can’t be good for you.” The tremble was back in Dutch’s voice and it too seemed to light a spark in Arthur’s groin. He couldn’t decide which was better: his fearless leader trembling under his touch or the monster that lived under Dutch’s skin appearing to fuck, hit, and strangle him. Both sounded demented to desire. 

Arthur climbed on the bed, spreading himself with lubed fingers. Dutch watched like a man hypnotized, licking his lips and clenching his fists in the blanket. 

“Arthur,” Dutch said softly and sincerely. “You’re the beautiful one.”

Arthur groaned at that, adding another finger so he could get that pleasant stretching feel while Dutch was praising him. Another thing to be ashamed about, he thought. 

“What are you doin’ back there?” Dutch asked, eyes glazed.

Good enough, Arthur decided, and straddled Dutch, bare skin against bare skin. It felt like the best thing he’d ever felt, and they hadn’t even started yet. He lined himself up with Dutch’s cock and lowered himself to it, getting a moan from Dutch. 

“Won’t this hurt you?” Dutch asked.

Arthur was surprised at the question, having assumed he’d talked every woman he’d ever been with into doing everything she could do. “A little. But it’s okay.”

“Can I do something to make it not hurt?”

“The stuff you bought, it helps. Thanks for that.”

Dutch nodded once, eyes rolling up into his head as Arthur slid lower, Dutch’s cock spreading him wider than his fingers could. It was a pain hard to get used to, but knowing it was Dutch made the pain feel more like pleasure. In a matter of seconds Arthur had Dutch all the way inside him, both of them still, waiting for their bodies to meld together. Arthur loved the way Dutch’s breath hitched when Arthur started to move. Slowly up. Slowly down. Dutch clawed Arthur’s thighs, drawing blood. That pain felt good too. And then he was fully stretched and Dutch no longer looked like he was going to blow an artery just from concentrating, so Arthur put his feet on the mattress and his hands behind him and pulled himself up to slam back down. Dutch threw his head back, cursing, clawing, fucking up into Arthur to get the pressure back around his dick. 

“So damn good,” Dutch gasped. “That’s right, boy. Fuck yourself on my cock.”

“Oh God, Dutch.” Arthur quickened his pace, came down harder, so riled up that he feared touching himself would make him bust. “I’ve wanted this for so long. I’ve—“

Dutch grabbed him by the hips, shoving him to the side so Dutch could climb on top. Suddenly there was so much pressure in Arthur’s guts he felt sick, Dutch screwing him so hard the sound of their skin slapping echoed across the sparse room. He hit Arthur’s prostate, and pleasure exploded through every nerve, numbing his mind and easing his muscles. The bed rocked. The headboard hit the wall over and over again. Arthur was vaguely aware that they were both screaming, but couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. Dutch was calling his name. Dutch was holding his legs. Dutch was fucking him like he’d aways dreamed. Arthur rolled his hips, meeting Dutch halfway. 

Dutch growled, hand snaking up Arthur’s chest. Squeezing his throat. He bit his ear. Hissed into it. “Cum for me, boy.”

“Shit,” Arthur croaked, his windpipe cinching shut under Dutch’s grip. 

“Cum. Now.”

It hit like a tidal wave, building, building, building, then hitting with all the power the world offered. It ripped through him, peaking as Dutch released inside him, rutting as Arthur pulsed, both of them grabbing each other for dear life. Black dots flooded Arthur’s vision. Dutch released his throat, still thrusting, still groaning and grabbing and biting. 

“That’s it. Take it all.”

Arthur couldn’t hold it in anymore. Something had irritated him, be it the physical exertion or the choking, he gasped for a breath and ended up coughing. Dutch stopped moving. His eyes were wide and the color in his face was draining. Arthur twisted to his side and coughed away from Dutch. He slid from Dutch’s grip and into the floor, gasping harder, terrified that nothing was reaching his lungs. 

“Arthur!” Dutch was on his knees beside him, his touches frantic and gentle at the same time. “Fuck!” 

Arthur tried waving him off, but ended up only clawing at his own chest like he could make an opening for air. Something dislodged, finally, and his next breath settled inside him, sight returning to see relief wash over Dutch’s face before he broke into tears. 

He leaned over Arthur, the only version of a hug that wouldn’t require moving him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Arthur. Please forgive me. I wasn’t thinking. Fuck.” He sobbed. “I haven’t been thinking at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I make everything sad????


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to write plot and this happened.

Arthur finally managed to control his coughing, which meant Dutch finally calmed down, picking Arthur up off the floor like he was made of glass already cracked and ready to shatter. Maybe he was more like that than he wanted to believe. It was hard telling how many more nights he’d have with Dutch, and really, they had just started.

Dutch lowered him to the edge of the bed. “Arthur—”

“I’m okay, Dutch, really.” But he couldn’t calm the jitters in his voice enough to convince himself. Would he die in his sleep tonight? Would it be better that way?

Dutch pulled Arthur to his chest and combed a hand though his hair. Arthur tried to breathe in time with him, but when it hit him how rarely soft Dutch was, and how soft he was now, his heart picked up speed. Leave it to Arthur to find something to excite him while struggling to stay alive. Arthur ran his hands down Dutch’s bare back. 

“I think you should just lay down.”

“What if I fall asleep and...and I don’t—“

“Arthur.” Dutch saying his name had within two days become erotic, even this time, when it held a warning. “Don’t. I can’t handle you sayin’ those things.”

“It’s an honest question.” 

“I suppose it is. But one which I don’t care to dwell on. And one you shouldn’t. I told you nothing bad was going to happen to you, didn’t I?”

“You say a lot of things.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I ain’t stupid Dutch.”

“And I never said you was.”

Arthur dug his nails in Dutch’s skin. “I’m just saying that, well, I know you say things sometimes that aren’t true, just to make people feel better.”

“So you’re calling me a liar. That it?”

“Why’s it gotta like that with you, Dutch? I don’t mean nothing bad by it. You do it to help people.”

Dutch sighed. “Sorry, son. I...you’re right. Sometimes all it takes to get people goin’ is to promise them that it’s gonna be worth the trouble. I need you to stay strong. I know you. I know you don’t give up. So don’t start doin’ it now. I want you by my side for as long as you’ll have me.”

“I love you,” Arthur murmured against his shoulder.

Dutch kissed his temple. “And I you.”

That got Arthur burning hot in less than a second. Cumming untouched had left him antsy anyway, feeling like a starving man who’d been given just a bite of food. He finally knew the weight of Dutch’s cock, the feel of it on his tongue, knew what it felt like stretching him open.

“Well now.” Dutch ran a hand up Arthur’s thigh and Arthur bucked, trying to make contact with it. “Like a kid, you are. But you need rest.”

“I just,” Arthur began, pausing to groan in frustration as Dutch pulled his hand away, “I’ve just been thinking about you for so long.”

Sweat slicked his palms at the admission. Dutch had so lovingly referred to him as his son for years upon years, and now Arthur was just practically blurting out that maybe he’d had or to a hundred wet dreams about it. Touched himself after he’d seen Dutch licking salt off his fingers. Had gotten into bed with men only to end up uttering Dutch’s name. 

Now they were huddled together, naked, Arthur hard and rubbing himself on Dutch’s leg, leaving the hairs tamped with pre-cum. 

“I’m afraid I don’t bounce back so quick,” Dutch said. “But I suppose I can return the favor you gave me earlier. Then to bed with you, understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dutch chuckled, dropping to his knees in front of the bed and spreading Arthur’s legs. It was a sight that made Arthur shudder, even with the tears still drying on Dutch’s face. “Damn, Dutch. On you’re knees for me and everything.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He stopped his face half on inch from Arthur’s cock and let out a long hot breath. It had Arthur twitching and Dutch smirking. Arthur almost bucked up into Dutch’s face, but had a feeling he’d regret it. He imagined Dutch was the type to eat a woman out with every trick in the book until she did something to piss him off. An argument here and there. A backhanded comment said with more sincerity than teasing. He had to be careful or else miss the chance to know what all those women had felt. The Dutch van der Linde with his mouth on your privates. Arthur whined like a damn dog. 

“I don’t even think you need me to cum,” Dutch laughed.

“You’re the only reason I’m like this.”

“Mmm. I like that answer.” He spread his lips and licked a quick swipe over Arthur’s slit. Arthur almost lost it. There was no way it was normal to be this sensitive just because of the person behind the tongue, but he couldn’t remember a time someone’s mouth ever felt better, and he hadn’t even gotten the full experience yet.

Arthur gripped Dutch by the hair and was surprised to find Dutch okay with it. “For the love of God, Dutch.”

“Now, now. Ask nicely, Arthur.”

Arthur gnawed on his lip, ashamed by how quickly he gave in. “Please, please. I want you to suck me off. I fucking need it.”

“Yeah?”

“If I don’t get to feel your tongue on me I’ll go fucking crazy. I’ll shoot the next bastard I see. I’ll stomp his skull with the heel of my boot until there’s nothing but pulp left.”

“My, my.” Dutch took him in his mouth, Arthur instantly fucking up into Dutch’s throat, a cry ripping from his lips. Dutch gagged and shoved him down by his hips. “Go easy, damn it. I’m new to this.”

“Shit. Sorry.” Arthur was shaking like the cold had followed them from the mountains.

Dutch winked. Arthur felt some of the pressure around his heart ease. Dutch wetted his lips and took Arthur again, slowly swallowing him down to the hilt. Dutch squeezed his eyes shut, and when pulled almost all the way off Arthur he opened them, eyes even wetter from choking. 

“Oh, God. M’ sorry. Usually I can...but seeing you...I’m gonna cum, Dutch. Oh, fuck, I’m gonna cum. Fuck!” Arthur shot in Dutch’s mouth, Dutch pulling back with a cough that somehow satisfied Arthur. Dutch got his hand around Arthur’s cock just Arthur grabbed at it, tugged him through an even stronger orgasm than the first. He fell back on the bed, stomach convulsing, Dutch chuckling, cum streaked across his cheek. Arthur came into Dutch’s hand until he was too empty and exhausted to do anything but go slack on the bed and suck in breaths that thankfully came easy. 

Dutch leaned over him and pressed a kiss to his lips, Arthur tasting himself. He moaned, feeling arousal trying to stir in him again, but he was really going to die if he tried to even lift his head at this rate. Dutch disappeared and returned with the pocket-square he usually kept in his vest. He wiped his mouth and then cleaned Arthur’s stomach, moving finally to clean Arthur between the legs where Dutch’s cum was still cooling. He tossed his pocket-square to the floor. 

Arthur took his hand and drew him onto the bed. “Thank you.”

“Sleep now,” Dutch said.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur said softly, sleep taking him easily in Dutch’s arms.


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur woke, warm, well-rested, and comfortable except for the pressure on his throat. He opened his eyes to find Dutch tearing his away. The pressure vanished.

“Were you feelin’ for my pulse?”

“No,” Dutch said. They were covered up to their chests by a thin blanket with more holes than than remaining fabric. Arthur’s backside was flush against Dutch’s bare front. “Maybe.”

“Not dead yet.” Arthur said grimly, but he couldn’t help the smile on his face, feeling Dutch’s body heat all over him. He shut his eyes, willing the itch in his lungs to subside. 

“I almost thought last night was a dream,” Dutch said into Arthur’s ear. It brought goosebumps to Aruthr’s arms. “Hearing you call my name. Feeling you squeeze around me. I don’t know why we didn’t do this sooner.”

“Well,” Arthur began, “for one thing, I thought you’d kick me outta the gang if I told you I wanted you that way.” Dutch said nothing. It gave Arthur a sinking feeling, like maybe at one point in time he would have done that very thing. “And it’s not like you’ve ever been single for long. Neither have I, I guess.” Dutch kept quiet, making Arthur’s heart squeeze. “I don’t know. Just didn’t think you liked men. Most people frown upon...this.” 

“Hm,” Dutch finally said. “That does explain a few things. And it’s a fair assumption.” Dutch bit Arthur’s ear, got a surprised gasp out of him. Dutch rutted into his ass cheeks, hard. “I’ve had thoughts of course. About men. Even about you.”

That woke Arthur like a dunk in freezing water. “You did?”

“Is it that hard to believe?” 

“Frankly, yes.” Arthur laughed. It ended it a wet cough. He cursed himself.

“That cough...”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dutch.”

“Fine then.” Dutch pinched Arthur’s nipple, suddenly and violently, making Arthur jump. With his neck exposed, Dutch clamped down on it with his teeth. When Dutch finally pulled back for air Arthur’s neck was bruising and Dutch was thrusting against the muscle of Arthur’s hole. “Let me fuck you.”

Arthur slapped the nightstand, trying to find the bottle Dutch brought with him. Dutch was relentless with his mouth, peppering Arthur’s neck with spots that would be nearly impossible to hide in his normal attire, but he wasn’t about to tell the man to stop. 

“What should I do to prepare you?” Dutch asked.

“Just go in. I want you to hurt me.”

“Jesus, Arthur.”

Someone beat on the door. Dutch was gone in an instant, on his feet and grabbed his gun from the floor. Arthur was slower than he used to be, but had his back to the wall just behind the swing of the door just as Dutch was saying, “who the hell is it?”

“It’s me, boss.”

They looked at each other. Dutch’s face settled into his usual scowl, all the warmth gone. He wrenched the door open and stuck his face into the gap. “Micah, what are you doin’ here?”

“I was worried about ya, Dutch. You didn’t come back. Thought maybe Arthur finally snapped.”

Finally? Arthur thought.

“How’d you even find me? You know what, forget it. Just get outta here.”

“Come on, Dutch, I know things are rough right now, but I got my boys back at camp. We need you’re input on this train thing. Tell you what, how ‘bout I get you a whore when we’re done? Hell, we’ll have the money; I’ll get you ten whores."

“Micah—”

“Where is Arthur? I know he ain’t in there with you.” Micah laughed.

Dutch slammed the door on him.

“Did YOU finally snap?” Micah called. “I guess that saves us some trouble later on, but we coulda used his muscle in the robbery. Assuming he had any left.”

Arthur jerked like he’d been slapped. “What?”

But Dutch was yanking the door open again, shoving himself halfway out to get in what Arthur imagined was Micah’s face. “Get out of here! If I hear another word from your goddamn mouth I’ll come out there nude as the day I was born and rip your tongue out with my bare-fucking-hands. You understand me?”

He slammed the door again before Micah dared to agree and Dutch would have to follow through on his threat. 

Arthur gawked at Dutch, mouth open but nothing coming out. If being in bed with Dutch felt like a dream, hearing him and Micah discussing his death felt like a nightmare. Dutch put up his hands.

“What the hell did he mean ‘save you trouble later’? Arthur asked.

Dutch took a tentative step forward, hands still up, like he was approaching a wild animal. Arthur supposed as weak as he was, he could still break Dutch’s neck if he wanted. And he was starting to feel a little wild. 

“Dutch, were you—“

“No,” he said suddenly.

Red flag.

“You believed that rat bastard?” 

“No.”

“You thought I would have turned you in to the law?” Arthur was screaming now.

“No!”

“You were going to, what, slit my throat when you were done with me being your errand boy?”

“Fuck, Arthur, of course not!”

“You’re a sick son of a bitch.” Arthur kicked through the clothes on the floor, taking what was his.

“Listen—”

“Why him? Why listen to Micah of all people?” Arthur paused buttoning his pants to lunge toward Dutch, terrified that every word of denial he let Dutch speak would keep ringing false. Arthur knew when Dutch was lying. He had tried to tell him he wasn’t stupid. But, he supposed, that might not be true after all. He had stuck with Dutch for too long to be smart. “We love you Dutch. Me and John. And we tried to tell you that listening to Micah was a shit idea. And now look. He’s poisoned your mind. Turned you against us. And what have I done? I knew it was happening and I STILL stuck up for you. I’m still doing every damn thing you tell me to do. John is still here with his entire damn family. We trusted you. And you—you were going to throw us away like all those years and all our love and loyalty meant jack shit to you. I ain’t a religious man, Dutch, but I’ll pray to God for your sake. Because if I find out you were going to harm John, his kid, his woman, or anyone else that you promised to protect, you WILL have to kill me or else watch as I hold you down and make you taste a bullet from my gun.”

Arthur found his shirt and headed for the door before he had it buttoned. 

Dutch blocked his path. "Don't go. Please, Arthur. I'm begging you."

"Then tell me the truth: have you and Micah planned running off on us? Taking all the money you're hiding in that god forsaken cave and leaving the rest of us to take the fall for your Blackwater mess?"

"Arthur," he said instead of raptly denying it. "I never intended to hurt you."

"But you have. Because you did intend to leave me behind. You just didn't intend for me to find out." Arthur ripped the door open so hard the hinges screamed. He didn't even care if Micah was still around to see. He wanted out of that room, away from the man he had let choke him solely because he assumed Dutch, when it came down to it, would always keep him safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep meaning to give y'all a happy chapter but apparently I'm incapable


	13. Chapter 13

Arthur pushed his horse faster than he'd ever dared, even when wolves had been biting at their heels. This felt more dangerous. It felt like he had finally told Dutch what he needed to hear and would suffer for it. 

He cut off the road and into the trees, trying to navigate the straightest shot to camp. He gripped his pistol, waiting to hear the Count's hooves. Waiting to hear a bullet sing past. His shoulder ached with the memory of being shot by that damned O'Driscoll. He could safely assume now that Dutch hadn't intended to save him, even that many weeks back, when Colm had been torturing him and Dutch had been reading by the fire when he returned. 

"You idiot," he growled to himself. The humidity got him coughing. 

Everyone was up and working. Arthur almost screamed at them to gather around, but seeing Javier and Bill cut him short. He had stopped trying to convince them to leave. It had just put a bigger target on his back. 

Javier seemed to glare at him from across the camp as Arthur dismounted and wandered toward John's tent. Empty.

"You lookin' for John?" Javier hollered.

"Yeah."

"Well he's gone."

"Gone?"

"Said he was taking Jack and Abigail for a trip to Annesburg. But it looks to me like there's nothing left of their things."

Oh thank God, Arthur thought, knees buckling. He held to the wagon by his tent, too relieved to be unnerved by the blood he spat on the ground.

"And here I thought you had left too."

"No. Not me."

"Why not? Sounds to me like you don't even trust Dutch anymore."

Arthur wiped his mouth, dragging himself toward his cot while Javier watched. Javier had been his friend once upon a not-long-ago time. He was still his brother. He wished he had tried talking to Javier before Dutch got his claws so deep in him, but it seemed to have happend while he hadn't been looking, just when Arthur had been slipping free. 

He dropped his head between his knees and coughed blood onto his ox hide rug. 

Miss Grimshaw appeared at his side, tonic dangling from her fingers. Arthur took her hand instead and pulled her closer.

"I tried." He whispered to her. "I know you thought I could keep him sane, but I ain't Hosea."

"S'okay Mr. Morgan." She gave him a small smile that didn't make it to her eyes. "I still have faith in you."

"You need to go. Make yourself scarce for a little while. I've got money. Enough for a hotel room. Take the girls with you. Please."

He dug money from the broken board of the wagon that his bed covered, no longer caring if Javier and Bill were right there to see. It was over. 

Miss Grimshaw hesitated. "You should come with us."

"If you can convince them, take Uncle, Pearson, and Reverend. Charles was at the reservation, but they were looking for a place to move. If you see him..."

"Dutch isn't going to like this. Not one bit. And you're gonna be the one to take the brunt of it."

"I know. Now, go on."

"What the hell are you doin', Morgan?" Bill shouted.

Miss Grimshaw tucked the money into her dress. "You're a good man Mr. Morgan. Please make sure I see you again." 

She squeezed his hand and left before Bill could make it over, and when he followed her, Arthur shot to his feet. "Leave her alone, Bill."

"Where'd you get that money, huh?" 

"It's my money," Arthur snapped. "I've given the camp more more than you've seen in your life, Bill. That's my cut. So shut the fuck up."

Bill stopped dead in his tracks. Arthur had never antagonized him, had never needed to. There wasn't a need now, he realized, because Bill was too damn lazy to chase down anyone, especially when he was outnumbered. He would tell Dutch. That was all. But Arthur was too tired and too hurt to care about Bill's reaction. 

His reaction was shoving Arthur. 

Arthur hit the ground. He had missed Bill's advance. 

"Shut up, Morgan," he said, once the surprise dropped off his face. 

"Let them go, Bill," Javier said. "Who cares? Dutch told people to leave if they didn't have faith in him. Obviously they don't."

"Well neither does this sorry son of a bitch. Just no one else will take 'em."

Arthur crawled to his cot, feeling unashamed only because he'd seen Bill do worse, once stumbling back to camp naked because he'd gotten drunk and played strip poker. Bill wasn't even half decent at poker when he was sober. They knew he was helpless anyway. As much as he told himself he could take Dutch, it became suddenly and undoubtedly obvious that Dutch could snap him like a twig in this state. Not that Dutch would have to. He would just shoot Arthur and Arthur would be too slow to stop him. 

Arthur felt Javier's eyes on him. He pulled himself onto his cot, studying the tonic Miss Grimshaw had left. He wondered if he should bother. Everyone who wanted temporary safety had begun their trek. If there was any way to salvage the gang dynamic, Arthur knew he'd either be too sick or too dead to help get things up and running. That was assuming Dutch would want the gang back. He obviously didn't want them now. 

The only thing left was to try one last time to get between Dutch and Micah.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please forgive me for any typos. I don't usually read over these before posting, and I've noticed some issues in past chapters that I've slowly been fixing. My bad, y'all.

"Where the hell is everyone?"

Arthur startled awake and startled again at the realization that he'd let himself fall asleep, half on his cot and half on the ground. He didn't remember shutting his eyes, just coughing. Gasping. Had he passed out? Had Javier and Bill really not slit his throat while he was down? 

Micha stormed past his tent, two strangers in tow, fists balled. For the first time, Arthur feared him. He'd always been ruthless and untrustworthy, but Dutch had also always been breathing down Micha's neck to keep his insanity partly in check. It didn't matter that Micah managed to be more fat than muscle. A light breeze could push Arthur down at this point. His lungs screeched as they worked.

"Ask Morgan," Bill said.

Micah spun. Arthur sat up. The usual dark humor in Micha's every word was gone and replaced by pure malice. "What'd you do?"

"Gave everyone a little vacation." Arthur chugged the tonic.

"We need the whole gang for this job!"

"I don't know nothin' 'bout a job."

Micah waved his hands like that shouldn't even matter. "Where are they?"

Javier made his way over from the scout camp, knife clutched in his fist as he crossed his arms. "Dutch is after them."

Arthur sat up straighter. Dutch had been there? 

"Shouldn't be hard to spot Pearson's wagon." Bill said. "Or Pearson himself."

"You're one to talk," Javier said.

"Shut up."

Arthur was wobbling on his feet, grasping his way toward the hitching posts. 

"Arthur, you're not gonna get anywhere like that," Javier called. 

"Why's Dutch keeping him around, anyway?" Bill said softly, but not soft enough to miss. "Maybe we should put him out of his misery."

"Dutch's last whipping boy." Micah shouted. Arthur lifted a hand without looking back and flipped him off. "Without Molly, I guess Dutch just needs a warm hole every now and then. Won't be warm for long though."

Arthur stopped. He craned his neck, mouth hanging like he had something to say to that while his mind ran blank. Bill was laughing, but Javier was looking between Arthur and Micah like he had heard the sincerity of the claim. 

"Saw you leaving Dutch's room in Van Horn."

Arthur's mouth went dry. "Good for you."

"Shoulda figured you were 'one of those' when Mary left you. Couldn't get it up for her?"

Arthur started toward him.

"You just let Dutch use you however he wants? That's sweet, son. Real kind of ya."

"Come on, you fools. Don't do this." Javier said. "We're almost outta here."

"Black lung ain't gonna do anything that would upset Daddy Dutch. We all know that." 

Micah's grin made Arthur's blood boil. Of course they knew. Of course Arthur wouldn't dispose of Micah--Dutch's new golden boy--without proper reason. There was no way Dutch (or anyone else for that matter) would let him get away with killing one of their own, especially the one formulating train heists. And besides all that, Arthur was done with killing to kill. Micah wasn't worth the strike against his soul. 

Javier gritted his teeth, eyes flashing the two. They hit Arthur last with a look of defeat Arthur never imagined he'd witness on the man. "Dutch left about twenty minutes ago," Javier said. "Maybe you can catch him."

"Where was he going?"

"Annesburg first, I think."

"Thank you, Javier."

Micah grunted. "We've got a train to rob. If you want a part of this, black lung, you better make sure you get our help back. We'll need 'em all."

"Ain't you got enough lackeys?" Arthur waved a hand at the two strangers by Micah, stumbling back toward his horse.

"You and the other's are gonna have to stop free-loadin' if you want the future we got planned, Dutch and I. Dead wood burns faster."

"I don't even know what that means."

"I'm sure you don't."

*

His horse hadn't rested long enough, and despite it all, Arthur didn't have the heart to push it as he had been. He also feared he didn't have the strength to keep mounted. His lungs rattled against the chill of the approaching night. 

Once he was out of the trees and on the main road to Annesburg, Arthur called for Dutch. He knew he was wasting good breath. Dutch had plans for him, apparently. And if Dutch was dumb enough to believe Micah that Arthur was the rat, he was also dumb enough to continue with his belief that Abigail and John had spilled their guts about the Saint Denis robbery. If the two boys he had raised were not safe from his judgement and prosecution, no one was. Jack, he thought, muttered an apology to his horse, and spurred it faster.

"Dutch!" he kept calling.

And finally he got an answer.

"Arthur?"

He tugged the reins back, his horse's hooves dragging several feet before they stopped. It grunted its displeasure. Silence followed. The birds had stopped their calls and the breeze had come to a standstill. It was just Arthur's heartbeat and his horse's breaths. 

"Arthur?"

Arthur jumped off his horse, didn't catch himself, and scrambled through the dirt on his hands and knees until he got to a rock at the edge of the road and could pull himself to his feet. "John?" he called.

"Arthur! I'm--I'm over here!"

"Keep callin'!"

"Arthur, the bastard shot me!"

His heart plummeted into his stomach; his stomach shot toward his feet. A strange and overwhelming urge to vomit everything out of his system brought him back to his knees. He purged nothing but stomach acid and returned to his feet.

John was lying between two raspberry bushes, thorns clinging to his clothes, a gunshot maring his stomach.

"Shit." Arthur grabbed him like he could piece him back together. A second bullet had scrapped the top of his shoulder. Blood drenched his shirt, and when Arthur lifted him, saw that it painted the ground too.

"I don't think I can move," John said.

"Then stop thinkin'. You've got to."

And Arthur had to find the strength he thought he'd lost forever, calling his horse over and lifting John onto its saddle. "Where are Abigail and John?"

"Got away. I--ugh--told them to take the train to Valentine. I was on my way back to camp when he jumped me. He got away."

"Dutch?"

"Dutch? No, Micah. He shot me, left me, and ran, the bastard."

Arthur's knee buckled trying to get on the horse behind John. It came from relief. He had really believed Dutch left John for dead. No, not just left him for dead, but had meant to murder him. The thought had sent a chill through him, and a second came when he realized he had just been face to face to Micah, and Micah had not looked the least bit phased. 

"Arthur," John croaked. "I don't think I'm gonna--"

"I'm getting you to a doctor, and you are gonna live because I'm telling you that you have to. You have to, John. For Abigail. For that boy of yours. They love you, and life ain't gonna be good for them if you leave. Got it?"

"...got it."


	15. Chapter 15

“I need a doctor!”

Almost in sync, townspeople littering the street spun toward Arthur, gawking, but not helping. John’s grip at his hips was slipping. It felt like the town was spinning around him, all the signs blurring. Post office. Gunsmith. No doctor.

“Come on!” He shouted, breaking into a coughing fit that left him gasping. He held onto John’s arm, trying to keep them both from hitting the ground. HIs horse slowed when faced with the converging crowd that seemed to want to stare more than speak. “This man’s dyin’,” Arthur barked. 

“You mean you’re not?” some man said.

“Over here!” It was a woman by the houses clustered against the left side of the street that waved him forward. 

Arthur spurred his horse through the crowd without his usual fineness, John moaning and the crowd hissing, someone’s foot getting crushed beneath a hoof. Arthur didn’t have time to care. He quickly dismounted at the foot of stairs the woman had taken, wrapping both arms around John and wincing as he cried out.

“Sorry, brother,” Arthur whispered. He pulled him off the horse, trying to bare all of John’s weight and nearly failing. Hot blood soaked through his shirt from John’s.

“Out here,” the woman was saying, and appeared from one of the houses with an older gentleman in tow. He grabbed John’s feet without hesitation, Arthur keeping hold under his arms, and they moved him up the steps and into a dimly lit, one-room house that smelled of stale cigarette smoke. The stink of blood quickly filled it. 

“What happened?” The woman ripped John’s shirt away from his skin. He had stopped struggling, stopped fussing, and his eyes sat closed on his pale face. The man pushed John’s eyelid up and the pupil had risen almost out of sight. 

“Shot. I don’t know how long ago.”

“Are you okay?” The man asked, glancing at Arthur.

“Please help him,” Arthur croaked. “He’s got a family.”

“Help me get him on his side,” the woman said. “I need to see if there’s an exit wound.”

The older man was there in a flash, rolling John over. Arthur saw spots and backed hard into a wall. Something fell and shattered at his feet. The man glanced over but the woman kept her eyes on John, fingers prodding flayed flesh. Arthur was so grateful he thought he might cry so long as he didn’t hit the floor first.

“It must have come out,” the woman said, more to herself it seemed, already searching through a bag with blood up to her wrists and coming back with a glass container of alcohol. “I ain’t a professional by any means, but I’ve stitched up enough people in this death-trap town that you can trust me. He may not live, but I’ll make sure he don’t bleed out no more either, so go sit outside, Mister, before you crack your head on my shelf.”

Arthur didn’t realize she had been speaking to him until her sharp blue gaze caught his. Arthur nodded his thanks and stumbled outside, ears ringing and hands going numb. In the back of his mind he hoped it was shock. Even farther back, he thought it was probably a lack of oxygen. 

The sun had dipped behind the mountain range, casting the small town in cool, nearly frigid, shadow. It cut through the blood in his shirt and chilled him to the bone. He stumbled down the steps and stopped at the last. If he didn’t sit he’d fall, so he slid against a house until he was on his butt.

The sun’s last ray glittered on the water’s shifting surface. Arthur watched it, willing himself to stay awake, afraid that there wouldn’t be many more sunsets for him. Lanterns flickered on across the town. A silhouette paused across the street from him.

“Arthur?”

Arthur snapped to. Night had crept up on him, the sky black against the houses burning with life. The silhouette jogged across the street. 

“Jesus, Arthur, what happened?”

A warm, rough hand clamped down on his shoulder. Another clasped his chin. Dutch. It was Dutch. Arthur released a shaky sigh and leaned into him. Dutch wrapped his arms around him, gently, trying not to hurt him.

“Marston,” Arthur said. “It’s his blood.”

Dutch stiffened. “Where is he?”

“Third house there on the right.”

Dutch stood. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Micah,” Arthur blurted. “John said it was Micah. Who shot him.”

Dutch said nothing, so Arthur craned his neck and met Dutch’s eyes, but found them shooting right through him. 

“And why would Micah do that?” Dutch said.

“Let’s hope you can ask John that.”

Dutch vanished inside the house, not even bothering to knock. Until then, Arthur had forgotten about his and Dutch’s argument, but suddenly it seemed fresh again. Dutch hadn’t shot John as Arthur originally thought, but maybe Dutch knew Micah was going to. 

Arthur got to his feet, a slow and delicate process that left him breathless anyway. His heartbeat throbbed through his temples. Where were the others? Did Dutch follow them here? Had he hurt them? His relief at seeing Dutch turned to panic as he scrambled toward the house and burst through the door. Everyone turned to look at him, John included. 

“John,” Arthur said, glancing at Dutch’s hands to make sure there wasn’t a knife poised for someone’s throat. “You’re okay?”

“I think so.” He sounded as weak as he looked. Dark circles ringed his eyes. “Thanks to this fine woman.”

“Thank you, Miss...?” Dutch began.

“No need for the thanks. I see a man hurtin’, I do my best to help. Helps me sleep better at night. That’s all I need.”

“Well,” Dutch sounded tired now that the adrenaline had ebbed out of his system. “Thank you nonetheless. This fella is like a son to me, you see. I owe you.”

Arthur studied him, tried to spot the deception and found no evidence of it, but Arthur would be a fool to trust his own judgement after it had already misled him. 

The woman waved her hand, dried blood beneath her nails. “So long as he ain’t wanted by the law, he should stay here until he rests some. Don’t want them stitches rippin’ free.”

Dutch nodded, watching John’s eyes fluttering open and shut as sleep tried pulling him under. “I’ll be back for you tomorrow, John. You all got a bath house in this town?”

“Sure, just down the street. Gotta talk to the gunsmith.

The older man tugged a wool blanket over John’s sleeping form and that apparently satisfied Dutch enough to take his eyes off him. “I’ll come check on him tomorrow. Me or one of my boys. Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

*

Dutch took Arthur’s hand outside the doc’s house, darkness hiding his face, but Arthur could feel his breath on his cheek. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Tired is all. What’re we gonna do about Micah?”

Dutch took a breath. Arthur couldn’t tell if it was defeat or disbelief. “Why would he do that? John seemed pretty out of it. Maybe—”

“Dutch!” It sounded almost whiny, like he had as a kid complaining about the chores Dutch had made him do. Only this held a desperation that gave Dutch pause. 

Dutch grabbed Arthur’s face, held his jaw, and pressed a kiss to his lips. It made his heart and groin twitch. Traitors. Arthur opened his mouth, then thought better of it and pulled away before anyone saw them. The last thing they needed was some hicks joining in the chase against the Pinkertons to snap their necks. 

“It’s a serious accusation. Micah has done a lot for us. And John is obviously unwell. But...but I’ll deal with it.”

“He—”

“I promise,” Dutch said softly. “I’ll get to the bottom of this, but I need to take care of you first.”

Warmth flared through Arthur’s stomach. Dutch kissed him again, deeper, and God help him, but Arthur thought it felt so right to be in his arms, against his lips. He was ashamed of it, ashamed that he no longer trusted Dutch but still wanted him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been typing this on a tablet and autocorrect sometimes changes words without me realizing. :( sorry if there has been gibberish in the last couple chapters, this one included.

“What happened to you?”

The gunsmith reared back behind his counter as if Arthur had pointed a gun in his face. Arthur didn’t much bother with baths when rivers were free, but the more he imagined lounging in steaming hot water the more he wanted it. He glanced at himself, at the red his white shirt had become. He hadn’t imagined a small town like Annesburg would turn down business, but maybe some people were just too nasty to have to clean up after.

“A lot,” Arthur said.

“My friend here needs a bath goin’ if it isn’t too much trouble.” Dutch slapped at coin on the counter, leaving a trail of red where his shirtsleeve had been around Arthur. In fact, now that they were in the light, Arthur thought it was obvious that Dutch had embraced him by the imprint on his clothes and a nervousness swept through him. The man might refuse to sell to them, or worse, might raise so much Cain that the law would get involved. 

Arthur almost walked out, but the man took the coin and told him to go on back. 

Dutch nodded toward the door. “Come on, I’ll make sure you get back there okay.”

He put a hand on Arthur’s lower back as Arthur passed and followed him into the hall. The tub was already full, suds reaching the rim, a small fire growling in one corner and steam clouding the air. Arthur shivered at the sudden warmth. 

Dutch shut the door behind them.

Arthur glanced over his shoulder. “Just making sure I made it back, huh?”

The mischievous grin Dutch gave him sent a shock right to his groin. Since when had Dutch become his weakness? He wished he had the guts to ask Dutch to leave, but as soon as the older man’s hands were slowly unbuttoning his shirt, he lost the will to do anything except let Dutch lead him. 

His shirt hit the floor and Dutch began trailing kissed down his neck to his chest, fingers skirting through the hairs and roaming across his stomach. Arthur fought back a groan.

“Javier said you were goin’ after the people that left.”

Dutch looked up, pupils blown wide. “Oh. Yeah?”

“Where are they?” 

“Why do you sound so worried?’

“I ain’t. Just thought you might, I don’t know, be mad that they left. Thought you might have made them return to camp, and if that’s the case, I don’t want Micah near any of em.”

Dutch licked his lips. “Is this what you really wanna talk about?”

“No. But Micah—”

“They’re on their way to Van Horn. They have more rooms there than here.”

“You let them go?’

“Of course I did.” A spark of anger slashed through Dutch’s expression. “Did you think I wouldn’t?’

“Micah said he needed everyone for the train. Went crazy when he saw everyone was gone. I just assumed you...I don’t know.”

Dutch sighed. “Javier said you gave them money, but I didn’t figure you had much. I wanted to make sure they weren’t out on the streets.”

“You did?”

“It’s not like they’re runnin’ from me. They’re stressed. Worried. We all are. So let em have a break. We had one of our own last night, didn’t we? Fine by me so long as they don’t attract attention.”

Arthur swallowed a knot in his throat. He had been telling people to run and never look back. But maybe, if Dutch—this Dutch that was soft and worried about the safety of his people—kept his head, they would come back. Maybe they could fix things. Maybe Dutch was right, and John hadn’t meant what he said. It was the first time since Hosea died right in front of his eyes that he felt a sliver of hope. 

“Arthur,” Dutch said, fingers creeping up Arthur’s clothed legs. “If you say Micah’s name one more time I’m never going to get hard again.”

Arthur felt a smirk tug his lips, already having witnessed the tent in Dutch’s pants when they’d been kissing in front of the doctor’s. “Yeah right.”

Dutch mirrored the smirk. He tapped Arthur’s foot until he lifted it, then got him to lift the other so Dutch could pull his boots off. His pants came down next, Dutch planting a kiss to each of Arthur’s thighs. Arthur groaned. His fingers slid into the curls at the nape of Dutch’s neck. 

“Javier and Bill are still at—”

“Shut up, Arthur,” Dutch growled. He pulled Arthur’s underwear down. “Get in the tub and let me bathe you like the women you pay.”

Arthur shuddered. He was half-hard and only a few inches from Dutch’s mouth, could so easily push himself into its warmth. Almost did. But then Dutch was rising. He grabbed Arthur’s hand and helped him into the tub. The heat made him sigh, his whole body unhinging as it was enveloped. Dutch kneeled at the side and shrugged out of his shirt. His hands dipped into the water and surfaced to scrub through Arthur’s hair. It felt so good that it too had Arthur groaning. 

“Remember that time Boudicca dragged you through that tar pit? You let it dry for so long neither me or Miss Grimshaw could get it all out without cutting it.”

Arthur laughed. “She was a damn wild beast to break.”

“Sounds like someone else I know.”

Dutch kissed his temple, surprising Arthur with the gentleness of it. The love in it. It made Arthur melt into Dutch’s grip.

“You’ve always been special to me.” He kissed Arthur’s jaw this time. His neck. He bit down on Arthur’s collar bone and water sloshed onto the floor, Arthur jumping at the sensation. It brought a rumble of a laugh out of Dutch.

A knock stopped him short, hands freezing in Arthur’s hair.

“Need any help in there, honey?’ A woman’s voice called.

“Do you?” Dutch whispered, lips brushing Arthur’s ear. His tongue ran along Arthur’s pulse point and ended up back at his lobe. Arthur squeezed the rim of the tub until his fingers turned white. 

“No thank you,” Arthur called.

“So polite,” Dutch said. “Good boy.”

“Jesus.” Arthur dropped his hand into the tub and Dutch grabbed it.

“Alright, maybe next time,” the woman said.

Right in his ear, Dutch said, “you better not touch yourself.” Arthur half-grunted, half-whined, and Dutch’s grin grew. “Hands out of the water, boy. Let me take care of it all.”

Dutch got to work scrubbing his arms, his chest, his stomach. Arthur jerked toward Dutch’s hands, Dutch pulling them out to start scrubbing his head again. A second time this happened. The third, Arthur thought better of it and kept still. Dutch rewarded his patience by rubbing his thighs.

“How many times have you wanted one of these fine ladies to jerk you off, huh?”

“Oh god,” Arthur moaned. Every time. Why else did people take deluxe baths? To be touched by a woman, to be teased, and to embed the sensation to memory for the next time you had a moment alone.

“I’m sorry you had to suffer alone,” Dutch said, voice deepening. “If I had known...”

Dutch ran a finger up the side of Arthur’s cock and Arthur snapped his head backward, baring his throat. It was the sweetest torture he’d ever experienced. He was dying to cum while also dying for it to never end. 

“How many times have your rubbed one out in your tent, just two tent walls between us?’

“A lot,” he gasped.

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

Dutch ran two fingers up him this time. “How many times have you thought about me?”

“God. Too much.”

“Did you listen to Molly and I fuck?”

The question made Arthur’s eyes snap open. “Yes.” He had meant to lie. 

Dutch’s hand retracted and Arthur rolled his head to look at him, ready to apologize or pretend he was kidding, but there was a deeper hunger staring back at him. It was as dark and endless as the very color of Dutch’s eyes. “How many times?’

“Several. Whenever I heard it and no one was around. I’d go right up to your tent and listen.” Arthur wished he would shut up, and even still the words flowed like the dam trapping them had shattered in half. “Then I’d finger and fuck myself until I was on the verge of blacking out.”

“How very bad of you, Arthur,” Dutch said, but grabbed Arthur’s cock and began to slowly stroke it.

Arthur moaned loud enough to make Dutch shush him. “I almost came in a couple times. Would have if I was sure neither of you would start yelling and wake the whole camp. I wanted to between you two. God, Dutch, I’m sorry but I was dying to fuck Molly while you fucked me.”

“Oh, Arthur,” Dutch said, gripping tighter, moving faster. “The three of us could have had so much fun.”

“I’m a damn fool for not trying.”

“Yes you are. But I’m a bigger fool for not noticing. All those wasted years I could have had you. All those days I felt like shit for even thinking about you in any obscene way. I’m a reprehensible man, Arthur, but there was no way I was going to act on my thoughts and ruin you.”

“You can ruin me now.”

Dutch trapped Arthur’s mouth with his own, tongue working it wide open. Every brush of Dutch’s tongue sent a spark of pleasure straight to Arthur’s groin.

Arthur grabbed Dutch’s wrist. “Gonna cum.”

“Put that hand up where I told you to keep it,” Dutch snapped, resuming the kiss. 

Arthur’s jaw began to ache. His lips burned. The back of his head was mashing against the tub with all the weight of Dutch’s upper body. Dutch didn’t stop. Arthur whimpered against his lips. He was too close. He didn’t want it to end. He wanted all of Dutch, and this seemed such a small part when he knew the possibilities. He braced his feet against the walls of the tub, squeezed the rim, tried pulling away from Dutch’s hand. But Dutch jerked him faster, and suddenly, Arthur was past the point of no return, riding to the peak of orgasm with a scream trapped against Dutch’s mouth. He came. Gasped. Rocked into the hand he had just been trying to escape while his body begged. Dutch pulled back to let him breathe, working his hand slower, drawing out every last sure of pleasure.

Arthur’s legs gave. His hands dropped into the tub. He sank until the water covered his ears and his thundering heartbeat was all he could hear. 

Dutch lifted Arthur’s head, a smile in his voice. “No more drowning.”

Arthur couldn’t even speak. His orgasm had torn through every muscle, nerve, and thought until he was nothing but the soft throb of a satisfied body. Slowly his mind returned, Dutch washing the soap from his hair, humming something soft under his breath. He could only think one thing: he must have already died, because this was surely heaven. 

“I must be good at hand jobs,” Dutch said with a laugh.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the lovely, lovely comments! You guys make me feel so awesome.

Warmth and satisfaction lulled Arthur into a light doze. Dutch propped Arthur’s head high on the rim and out of the water. Then pants hit the floor. Arthur opened his eyes to see Dutch swing a leg over the tub, getting a flash of every hard and swollen bit of him. Dutch sank into the opposite end of the tub, his legs gliding against Arthur’s as he stretched out. Arthur watched him, eyes heavy, dragging his foot against Dutch’s inner thigh.

Dutch lifted his face from the water, scrubbing away a fine layer of dust that riding had given him. Arthur brushed Dutch’s dick, making the man shudder.

“Close those eyes and rest for a bit, Arthur.”

“Don’t wanna.” He pressed both feet to either side of Dutch’s cock, stroking it between his arches. Dutch combed soap through his own hair, gnawing at his bottom lip as Arthur slowly worked him harder. His quickening breaths filled the silence. 

Arthur allowed himself then to close his eyes and memorize the feel of Dutch. The sound of his gasps turning to stifled moans and whispered praises. It was the stuff of dreams. 

Dutch shoved Arthur’s feet away to grab himself and scoot closer, rising on his heels to straddle Arthur’s stomach. Water tapped the floor. Dutch’s teeth grazed his jugular. Arthur grabbed Dutch’s ass cheeks and spread him wide. Dutch jerked himself, breaths beginning to stutter as they did when Dutch was close to cumming. Arthur slid his finger against Dutch’s hole and felt the man tense.

“Is this okay?” Arthur asked as Dutch pulled back from his throat.

“I...think so?”

“I’ll make you feel good,” Arthur promised, and sat up just enough to trap Dutch’s lips against his own. 

Arthur wound his finger around Dutch’s tight ring of muscle, swirling and prodding and teasing until Dutch started to jerk himself again. As soon as Dutch held his breath, Arthur shoved a pinky inside. The breath exploded out of Dutch, a pained whine following after. 

“Shh,” Arthur said, free had skirting over the tip of Dutch’s dick while he began to move his pinky deeper. 

“Ah, God, how do you do this?” Dutch hissed. “Hurts.”

“Trust me,” Arthur murmured, his voice seeming to make Dutch twitch in his hand. “This is gonna be another thing you’ll wish you’d done sooner.”

Arthur stroked him, forcing Dutch’s hand away, while he pulled his pinky out to the nail and pushed it back in. Dutch’s face was scrunched, his hands squeezing Arthur’s chest. 

“Relax,” Arthur whispered. 

Dutch wilted, forehead dropping against Arthur’s, eyes squeezing shut as Arthur removed his pinky to replace it with his middle finger. He fingered Dutch slowly and gently, listening for the change in breathing. We he heard Dutch edge the closest to a climax yet, Arthur curled his finger and jammed it into his prostate. 

Dutch screamed. Really screamed. Surprise mixed with sudden and overwhelming bliss. He thrust into Arthur’s fist, legs trembling, nails drawing blood, the drop of Arthur’s name echoing through the room.

Then he collapsed, gasping into Arthur’s neck and calling on God.

*

“You should get a room tonight,” Dutch said, snapping his vest up. “I’ll come back for you when I come for John.”

“You’re headin’ back to camp?”

“I’m afraid I have to.” Dutch combed his wet hair off his face, attempting to mimic his usual style without pomade at the ready. 

“I’m goin’ with you then.”

“That’s not a good idea and we both know it.”

“You’re not gonna actually confront Micah, are you?’

Dutch crossed his arms. “Is that a problem?”

Arthur was still naked, sitting on the rim of the tub and letting his skin air-dry while he gathered the strength to dress. Normally, he would feel vulnerable so bare, but Dutch had somehow eased all the nerves Arthur ever felt when it came to being unarmed and uncovered. He briefly wondered if that was a good thing. He glanced at his gun belt, tangled with Dutch’s on the floor. “I don’t want him to hurt you.”

Whatever challenge had been building in Dutch’s throat seemed to die on its way out. “You...He won’t.”

“He won’t so long as you keep your guard up, but will you do that? You seem pretty sure John is a liar, as if a man bleedin’ to death has anything to lose.”

Dutch unwound his belt and cinched it tight around his waist. “Can you ride?’

Arthur stood, woozy, but stable enough to play it off. “Not like it’s far.”

“Far, no. But if John is right and Micah has decided to massacre people he claimed to hold dear, who knows what we’ll be walking into? You can ride with me on the Count. Leave your horse here with John in case he needs to make a quick getaway.” 

Arthur nodded, despite his discomfort at the idea of leaving his horse behind. He supposed he was more attached than he thought he’d be after losing his last. He didn’t ask, hopefully didn’t seem weak, but Dutch helped Arthur dress, holding him in kiss afterward that seemed startlingly sweet for a man like him. Arthur supposed it was how Dutch treated women, and somehow that idea hurt him. He was no longer Dutch’s strong hand, no longer barrel-chested, cut through with muscle. He would never be gently curved like a woman. He was just shapeless bone now. Pale and red-eyed. All the times he had called himself ugly...he wished he looked like that now.

“Something wrong?” Dutch asked, feeling Arthur still against the kiss.

“No.”

“You’ve never lied to me before, why have you started?”

Arthur stiffened.

“First John. Rains fall. Now you’re not telling me the simplest of truths. Are you okay?”

Arthur could hear screech of his lungs with every breath. He assumed Dutch could hear it too. “No.”

“I’m going to take care of you,” Dutch whispered. “As soon as we have—”

“Money,” Arthur finished. Dutch had been saying they just needed more money for months. Even before his diagnoses, Arthur felt the noose of time tightening on his neck. There would never be enough money and never enough time. Arthur would be in his grave by the time Dutch came to his senses, if ever.

“Don’t lose faith in me now.” Dutch tilted Arthur’s chin until their eyes met. “I need you with me, so you better believe I’ll do everything I can to ensure your health and safety. But you have to do the same for me.”

He was late. Arthur couldn’t help but feeling like it was just another empty speech to ease his complaints. 

“Trust me,” Dutch continued.

He wanted to. He almost said as much, but then Dutch would know he had already lost his trust, assuming his actions hadn’t already proven as much. Admitting it seemed like it would hurt Arthur as much as it would hurt Dutch.

“Okay.”

Dutch kissed him again, softer. Arthur almost hated himself for the way it made the pit in his chest lighten and made his heart stutter. He was spent, but wanted more than anything to get a room, de-robe, and just curl up next to Dutch, hold and be held, fall sleep with their legs tangled, and feel the strong, steady rhythm of Dutch thrusting into him in the morning. 

“Let’s head home.”

Home. The word brought Arthur back to Earth. He was home, so long as he was with Dutch.


	18. Chapter 18

Dutch took the path to Beaver Hollow at a pace even the Count thought was too slow. The trees would start to blur and Dutch would have to rein him in, receiving an angry huff in response. Dutch never rode this slow, even when he was trying to converse with other gang members, only Dutch wasn’t talking this time. Arthur had his hands around Dutch’s waist, snuggled up tight against his back and trying to hide the shiver that kept trying to break across his spine. 

“Don’t go slow on my account,” Arthur said. He was itching for the chance to throw a fist through Micah’s teeth. His pistols were a constant comfort, taken from men he had killed by shooting first and shooting fast. He might not do well in a fistfight anymore, but not even Micah was immune to a bullet between the eyes.

“Just need time to think,” Dutch said. The forest was pitch-black, and its canopy stretched across the path, allowing only the tiniest stripes of light to guide their way. Dutch seemed to be sure of their path, however, as sure as he was of everything else. It didn’t matter if people disagreed with his plans. When he decided something, he did it.

Arthur had never been the affectionate type, especially when the outside world replaced the comforting embrace of four walls, but he pressed a kiss to Dutch’s nape, feeling the man tense and then relax deeper. He didn’t want Dutch to suffer, but it seemed righteous that, after ignoring everyone’s pleas to stop, he was having to confront the idea that he’d been wrong to trust Micah. Arthur had been the most vocal, after that botched riverboat job and the massacre he caused in Strawberry, and his complaints about Micah had seemed to be the first downward slope in Dutch and Arthur’s relationship. Arthur didn’t want it to ruin what he’d found. He’d rather Micah kill him than have to witness Dutch choosing Micah over him. Again. Perhaps that’s what it would come to.

The small glow of a campfire haloed the peak of a hill to their right, and Arthur felt the Count take the turn in the path that led straight to camp. Arthur listened but heard nothing like screams or gunshots, only the incessant chirp of frogs. The silence set him more on edge.

“Let me handle this,” Dutch said.

The camp would have looked empty if not for the fire. The remaining wagon and tents were thrown in shifting shadow. The darkened mouth of the cave looked more frightening that it had on the night Arthur and Charles had confronted the Murfrees within it. 

"Micah!" Dutch called, stopping the Count at his usual hitching spot, as if this were any other night and not the night Micah had nearly gutted John. He dismounted and squeezed Arthur's knee. "Stay here."

"Boss!" Across the camp, Micah stepped from shadow and hurried to meet Dutch. They stopped at the main campfire, the glow casting heinous lines across Micah's expression. Arthur could not read it, could barely hear the words that followed. "We missed that train! Goddamnit where is everyone? Those fuckers costed us five grand."

Dutch put his hands up, a gentle way to shut him up, and Arthur bristled. Gentleness was the farthest thing from what the situation warranted. Arthur slipped from the Count and drew his pistol. 

"There will be other trains," Dutch said. 

"What are you talkin' about?" Micah snapped. "Dutch, ain't gonna be no more trains with that much money on them."

"We'll figure it out."

"There's no time! Pinkerons. I saw Pinkertons in Annesburg."

Dutch stiffened at this, visibly enough to ease Micah it seemed. Arthur kept to the edges of the camp, trying to keep out of Micah's line of sight. 

"Where else we gonna run, Dutch?" Micah's voice had adopted that soft yet dramatic cadence Dutch often used in speeches. Micah knew Dutch too well it seemed; he knew Dutch liked to hear himself. "I am with you brother, all the way, but we gotta do somethin' fast."

"Who else did you see in Annesburg?"

The question startled Arthur into stillness, back pressed against his map tacked to his wagon. Perhaps Dutch was going to confront Micah after all.

"Are Pinkertons not enough for you?" Micah said. 

"Did you see John?"

Arthur circled around the back of his tent, stepping where the ground was damp from recent rain, and appeared about ten feet behind Micah. Dutch's eyes widened.

"Marston? Ain't he off with his whore wife and bastard kid? They're probably close to Blackwater by now, tryin' to get their hands on our money." Micah spit in the fire. "Good riddance. Only wish I could see them hang."

"I..." Dutch kept his eyes on Arthur.

A gunshot tore though the sound of Dutch's voice, a flash of light sparking from the ridge above. Even then, in the midst of an oncoming storm of bullets, Arthur looked at his pistol to make sure it hadn't been his doing. But Micah was still alive. He and Dutch were hitting the ground and scurrying away from the noise. Micah slammed into Arthur, dazed, then shoved him out of the way. Dutch grabbed Arthur's hand.

"Van der Linde!"

Arthur knew that voice. They all did by now. Milton had followed Arthur from the waking world into the sleeping too many times to count, always causing him to snap awake, grasping at phantom pains caused by gunshot wounds or a rope at his neck. 

"Come on," Dutch snapped, pausing to shoot into the dark behind them before dragging Arthur toward the river. 

Arthur dug his heels into the ground. “We can lose them in the cave.”

“The cave?”

“Trust me.”

There was a quick moment where Dutch looked him in the eyes and Arthur could feel his judgment. His wariness. Arthur had been with Dutch all night. There was no way he could have tipped the Pinkerton’s off, yet it was written all over Dutch’s face that, while he didn’t want to believe it, he did.

“Dutch, please.”

A bullet whizzed by Arthur’s ear. That got Dutch moving. “Okay. Lead the way.”

Arthur kept hold of Dutch’s hand, the one other comfort besides his guns, and pulled him into the dark mouth of the cave, skirting left along the wall and hoping above all that his feet wouldn’t lead him astray. There wasn’t much light. There was even less strength in his legs. Still, Arthur ran. Gunfire roared after them.

“They’re following,” Dutch said. “We’re trapped down here.”

“Trust me, Dutch,” Arthur wheezed.

Arthur slipped, boots gliding over rock worn smooth by Murfrees. Dutch wrenched him to his feet. He took another step and fell again, knees cracking. Perhaps it wasn’t the smoothness, but Arthur’s weakness. 

“You can do this Arthur.” 

“I’m-”

“Save your breath and get up.”

“There’s a ladder at the back of the cave.”

“Arthur-”

“It’ll take you to the surface, but you gotta keep runnin’.”

“Get up, Arthur!”

“I’m so tired.”

“So help me God I will drag you outta here by your hair. Get up!”

“Spread out!” Someone shouted. “They’re in here somewhere.”

Dutch dropped to his knees, hand gripping the nape of Arthur’s neck. “I’m not leaving you. We either leave together or we die together.”

“Shit,” Arthur groaned, shunting his feet beneath him. Dutch slung an arm around his lower back and drew him up, dragged him deeper through the cave, demanded that Arthur keep moving, keep fighting, keep breathing. But Arthur’s lungs were working slower and slower while his heart worked faster, begging for air that wasn’t coming.

Even Dutch could no longer ignore the rasp of Arthur’s shallow breaths. 

“How far?” Dutch said.

“Not...far.”

They had to climb. Arthur insisted Dutch go first, but Dutch was shoving him into the first ladder before he could say more.

“I’ll catch you if you fall,” Dutch said, planting a hand on Arthur’s butt and pushing him up as he climbed. Arthur’s grip was sweat-slick, but knowing Dutch wouldn’t make it out if he didn’t forced his fingers tighter. 

“Dutch!”

Micah. Arthur didn’t dare stop climbing to look, but suddenly Dutch’s hand was gone.

“How did they find us?” Dutch snapped below him.

Micah scoffed. “How am I supposed to know?”

“Come on, Dutch,” Arthur said.

“Why don’t you ask, Black Lung?”

“It don’t matter no more.” Arthur scrambled onto the rock ledge, grasping for the retaining wall that blocked him from the ladder leading topside. “Dutch!”

Footsteps rattled up the ladder after him, but when Arthur looked it was Micah scampering onto the ledge. Dutch followed after him, avoiding Arthur’s eyes for as long as he could. Micah passed Arthur, climbing onto the next ledge and hurrying toward the ladder. The voices of Pinkertons had stopped.

Dutch stopped beside Arthur hand landing on his hip. “Let’s get you up there.”

Arthur didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Micah was grunting as he scaled the ladder to freedom. Arthur’s stomach was dropping. Finally, Dutch looked at him.

“Don’t start,” Dutch said. “Not now.”

Arthur bit his tongue, hating himself for letting Dutch get away with this, but the silence unnerved him more than gunshots, and he could only assume they were lining up shots on them from the darkness. He would not die until Micah paid for what he’d done.

Dutch hefted Arthur onto the next ledge and hopped up behind him. “Almost there, love.”

Arthur coughed into the ground, feeling Dutch tugging at the back of his shirt. Micah’s shadow cast by moonlight danced across him, spurring him to stand. It would be so easy for Micah to shoot straight through Arthur’s spine from his vantage point. 

He struggled to his feet and started up the ladder, Dutch on his heels, praising Arthur for every rung he climbed.

“That’s it, Arthur. You’re doing it. Keep going. I know you have it in you.”

The words snaked through Arthur’s terror, warming him from the inside out. His joints seemed to loosen, his strength returning from whatever endless pit he thought it had vanished through. Dutch kept patting him not he calf, cheering when Arthur surfaced aboveground and scaled the last few rungs into the night. 

Dutch dropped on top of him, laughing and shaking him by the shoulders. “You did it!”

“Not out of the woods yet,” Arthur said, but said it through a smile.

Dutch kissed him, a hard press of wind-torn lips against his, warm and loving and filling Arthur with the adrenaline he’d need to get to whatever hiding spot they could find.

“Not out of the woods, but closer,” Dutch said against him. He rolled until he was off Arthur and could climb to his feet. 

Micah was frozen ten feet away, open-mouthed but (for once in his life) speechless. Arthur grabbed Dutch’s offered hand, but Dutch didn’t move to get him to his feet.

Micah found his voice. “What in the—”

“We should keep moving,” Dutch interrupted, a darkness blooming across his expression. Arthur kept his hand in Dutch’s but stood on his own, the dread of Micah fighting with the relief of his newfound strength. He wasn’t on his last leg just yet it seemed. 

“Did you two just—?” Micah started.

Again Dutch stopped him, this time with a sharp whistle meant for the Count. Arthur wasn’t sure the horse would hear it or the one Micah gave to lure his, but a less a minute later, they could hear the heavy patter of hoofbeats heading in their direction. The Count appeared in a flash of white, Baylock in a flash of black.

“Mount up,” Dutch said, tugging Arthur toward the Count. He made Arthur sit in front of him, one arm tight around his waist while the other grasped for the reins. “We’re gonna have to ride hard.”

He snapped the reins, the Count pulling into a gallop. Arthur glanced back to find Micah following.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the gap in updates! You guys are the best. Thank you for all the kind comments :)


	19. Chapter 19

They had traveled into what Arthur assumed to be early morning, ending up somewhere south of Van Horn, but not south enough to put his mind at ease when Dutch suggest setting up camp. There wasn’t much hope of that anyway with Micah following their every turn. He had been trying to ride next to the Count, but one mention of Dutch and Arthur’s closeness on the saddle made Dutch snap at Micah to get back far enough so he didn’t have to hear his voice. It seemed like Micah had been trying to rile Arthur up when he mentioned Arthur leaving Dutch’s hotel room in Van Horn. Now he was realizing he hadn’t been far off in assuming their night together had been anything but chaste. 

“We should lose him first,”Arthur said at the mention of stopping for the night, but his voice was deep and hoarse with exhaustion. Dutch slowed even further at the sound of it.

“He’s...Micah has always been on my side,”Dutch whispered.

“He’s always been good at pretending,” Arthur corrected.

“He’s insane, there’s no doubt in my mind, but not insane enough to turn on me.”

“What’s to be afraid of anymore, Dutch? Without Hosea, without the gang’s trust...ain’t no one gonna fight him for being a traitor except you and me. I ain’t so scary anymore, and you ain’t so scary without followers.”

Dutch’s arms stiffened, but it was his silence that brought dread bubbling into Arthur’s stomach. If it hadn’t been for John, Arthur might have jumped off the Count with the hope it would break his neck. You’ll never change, Mary had said, and that was true. Maybe it was true for Dutch as well. He did not take kindly to others pointing out his shortcomings. 

“I will do what’s best. I always have.” Dutch yanked the Count to a skidding stop. He twisted to look behind him. “We’re camping, Micah. Horses need so rest and so do I.”

“Sure, Boss,” Micah called. “Whatever you think’s best.”

Arthur couldn’t help the roll of his eyes, but he had to admit that it felt nearly blissful to be sliding off the saddle after such a long, hard ride. Dutch kept a hand on his back to keep him steady before untying his bedroll. He studied it for a moment, glanced at Micah dropping off Baylok, and pulled his tent gear from the saddlebag. 

“Where we at, Dutch?” Micah asked.

“I reckon if we don’t know then neither do they.”

Arthur kept Micah in his periphery while unfolding the canvas Dutch had set on the ground. Dutch pulled it out of his hands once he had the stakes in the ground. “Sit, Arthur.”

“M’ okay.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion.”

An angry flush burned across his cheeks to his ears. Dutch had a hell of a way of making him feel small. Always had. He supposed it would have been different if Dutch hadn’t met Arthur when he had been small, or maybe it was Dutch’s way of regaining some sort of control on the situation. Make everyone else feel small so you can feel the biggest. 

He collapsed on the grass by the road, watching for movement or light, just waiting for someone to start shooting, be it Micah or a Pinkerton that had trailed them for the last several hours. 

He woke up to hands on his upper arms, jumping before recognizing Dutch. The horses were hitched and two tents were set in the trees to his left, visible only if you knew what you were looking for.

“I’m sorry,” Dutch said softly. His smell punched Arthur with familiarity: sweat and smoke, and Arthur felt himself leaning into it. “For being dismissive. And cruel. I know I am, more often than not, callous to you these days. It’s just that...I’m afraid.”

Arthur let his hands creep up Dutch’s back, fingers digging into what he could only imagine were sore muscles. “I’m afraid too. Nothin’ wrong with it.”

“One of us has to be strong.”

“We only have to be there for each other,” Arthur said. “Don’t matter if we’re both shit-scared. I got you. That’s all I need.”

Arthur blamed his fatigue for such soft words, but seeing warmth rip through Dutch’s expression made his own embarrassment evaporate. 

“I’ll try to do right by you,” Dutch said. “But I’m not infallible.”

“No one is.”

Dutch paused as if he hadn’t thought of that before and slowly nodded. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Micah’s tent was closed to the breeze, but Arthur didn’t believe for a second that he was sleeping. Nor would he. But as soon as he was on Dutch’s bedroll, Dutch curling up next to him, he could no longer keep his eyes open.

*

Arthur startled awake, breath sticking in his lungs and unable to break free. He scrambled out of the tent and coughed into his arm, trying to muffle sound, trekking farther from the tent when he realized it wasn’t working. He gasped and hacked and struggled for fresh gulps of air, dropping to his knees when it failed to come. Every poor inhale was dotted with a squeak, his airways pinched tight. He spat blood. Panicked. Shut his eyes and tried to slow his heart. He told himself TB wouldn’t kill him until he let it.

“My, my, Black Lung. Ain’t you the perfect picture of health?”

Arthur stilled, all too aware of how sprawled and defenseless he was. His back was just waiting for Micah’s bullet. He started to speak and broke into another fit of coughs. Micah laughed, just low enough to reach Arthur’s ears. It infuriated him.

“Don’t think you got away with it,” Arthur rasped. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” Micah’s voice was right in his ear now, but as much as Arthur tried, he couldn’t stop coughing long enough to get his feet under him. “You know, they only want Dutch. That’s all they’ve ever wanted. Don’t much matter what all we’ve done, so long as they get him.”

“Wh—“

“I thought about lettin’ you go. Thought you might see better of hangin’ around Dutch once he started losing his damn mind, but you’re the ever loyal pet, ain’t ya? It’s weird, Morgan. Just ‘cause he raised you don’t mean you owe him shit. Even John wasn’t smart enough to cut and run. As soon as he saw me with the Pinkertons, he started heading straight for camp to tell Daddy Dutch, even though it meant leaving his whore and her bastard. 

Arthur’s arms nearly dropped him face-first into the blood he’d just expelled. A tremble shot through his body, turning his stomach into one giant knot. “You’re the—”

“We’re all just tryin’ to make it out here, Black Lung. With the amount on Dutch’s head, well, I’ll be a rich man for the rest of my life. Woulda had more if you hadn’t scared everyone from camp and we coulda got one last score.”

Arthur fumbled for his gun, but his hand grasped only air. He had removed his gun belt to sleep, had kept it close, but it no longer mattered once he’d gone running out. 

“It’s easier to let Dutch pretend to rule us all when you know he’ll be hangin’ soon enough.”

Arthur jerked backwards, skull cracking against Micah’s chin. He saw white for a moment, and before he could spin, felt a sharp sting in his side. It stole his breath, what little he’d had. He dropped.

“Never thought I’d see you so weak,” Micah said. “Almost feels dirty to kill ya.” He ripped the knife out of Arthur’s side, steel grating bone. “But ain’t never minded getting dirty before.”

Arthur rolled, Micah a black silhouette against the star-riddled sky. Dawn was coming, but he wouldn’t get to see it.

“You just bleed for awhile, Morgan. Think about all the things you shoulda done different. The hot fires of Hell will be ready for ya when you decide to close them pretty blue eyes.”

Micah spun on his heel and strode toward camp. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. The stars blurred


	20. Chapter 20

“Arthur!”

Arthur opened his eyes to dawn. The trees blurred together. His mouth was dry. His head ached. His heartbeat sounded slow and weak in his ears.

“Dutch?” The word came out as a whisper.

“Damn it, where are you?”

He tried to lift his arm and found he couldn’t. “Dutch.”

“Put your hands up, Van der Linde. I won’t tell you again.”

Milton. Memories crowded Arthur’s head, ones of Micah and his knife, ones of Hosea dying on the street. Had that been Micah’s doing, too?

“Arthur!” Dutch screamed, voice rising a pitch with panic. 

Arthur’s sight was fading to black again. He dragged his fingers up an inch through the dew-dampened grass. Up another. His guns were still gone. His shirt was cold with old blood. He shunted a thumb against the knife wound and gasped. 

“They want you alive, Dutch,” Milton called, “but I’m starting to think that detail no longer matters to me. Come out, or I’m coming in shooting to kill.”

Arthur got to his hands and knees. “Dutch!”

Footsteps beat at the ground behind him, and Arthur feared twisting to look would be the final straw that would kill him. All he could do was hope it wasn’t a Pinkerton, and if it was, hope that the bullet killed him instantly. 

But warm hands were running down his shoulders and to his arms. “Arthur,” Dutch whispered. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He pulled Arthur’s hand from the wound.

Arthur used Dutch to sit fully up on his knees, entire body trembling. “You gotta go.”

But Dutch seemed to be elsewhere, eyes distant, face drawn and teeth gritted. “I’ll kill that bastard.” He grabbed Arthur under the arms and tugged him to his feet.

Arthur collapsed against him. “Micah’s the rat.”

Dutch squeezed him tighter, a hitch in his voice when he spoke again. “I’m...I didn’t listen. Why didn’t I fucking listen?”

“‘Cause you didn’t want it to be true. Now get outta here. Go!” Arthur pulled away to cough in the opposite direction of Dutch. “I ain’t gonna be the reason you hang.”

“If I hang, I’m the only reason.” Dutch glanced over his shoulder. The sound of hoofbeats were drawing closer, too numerous to just be the Count. “Can you stand?”

“No.”

“Then sit.” Dutch let him go. Then he ran toward the road. 

“Dutch no!”

There was a shout. Dutch drew his guns. Aimed. A group of five mounted Pinkertons slowed to a stop not ten feet from him. Arthur felt himself coming undone. His heart was in his throat and there were tears pooling on his lashes. He hurt too bad to think clearly, but he knew this was the end. He knew Dutch was a deadman and so was he. 

“A truce, boys?” Dutch’s voice boomed, nearly feral, but his lips were curled in a small that almost looked friendly. 

“You’re in no position to bargain.” Milton snapped the hammer back on his pistol.

“Oh? But you’ll like this.”

Milton licked his lips, glanced at the others. “What I’d like is your head under my boot, but I suppose I’ll let the gallows do their damage. Don’t think it will be quick, through. I intend to watch you struggle.”

“I will go without fuss,” Dutch promised, “so long as you get my friend here to a doctor first.”

Milton nudged his horse closer to Dutch, not daring to dismount in case Dutch started shooting. He met Arthur’s eyes, surprise flashing across his face. “Arthur Morgan. You’ve seen better days.” Milton looked at Dutch, daring to lower the pistol pointed at Dutch’s head. “He looks past saving, Dutch. Even if we agreed with your proposal, your life for his—how very tender, by the way—there seems little chance we’ll even get him on a horse.”

“Well,” Dutch’s face was growing an alarming shade of red. “You better damn well try if you want my compliance. You know I shoot faster than you and your men. I may die when I pull this trigger, but not before I take you out.”

Milton looked at Arthur again. “I must say I’m surprised at you, Dutch. You’re not the martyr type.”

“Do we have a deal?”

Milton laughed, but even Arthur could see the shine of terror dancing in his eyes. “Tie Van der Linde up, one of you. Tight as you can. The rest...I’m going to need help with Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur almost expected it to be Dutch’s hands roaming his body. It had been all the other times, even when he least expected it. Instead he felt the bony fingers of a Pinkerton. 

When he woke, he was draped over a horse, crying out in pain. Every soft step the horse took sent waves of fire through his body. He struggled against the saddle. The Count’s saddle. 

“Take it easy, Arthur,” Dutch said. 

Arthur lifted his head, tried to find Dutch in the army of Pinkertons ahead of him. Wherever he was, he was surely tied so tight to the back of a horse that he’d lose a limb before they got to the gallows. 

The gallows.

“Dutch,” Arthur slurred.

“Don’t fret, Mr. Morgan,” Milton said. Arthur wasn’t sure where his voice was coming from, but it seemed to fill his whole head. “We’ll let you visit Mr. Van der Linde’s grave before we hang you too, so long as you’re nice.”

“What?” Dutch barked. 

“We’re still taking him to the doctor as promised. But I never said he wouldn’t hang for his crimes, so long as he lives to see tomorrow, anyway.”

“You fucking—“

Milton screamed over him, a laugh in his voice. “You’re usually better with words, Dutch. But I see your fall from grace has dropped you farther than even you expected.”

*

There was a haze of yellow whenever he opened his eyes. Arthur knew there was a ceiling over his head, but could tell little else. The second time he woke, a man was leering over him, hands bloody. Arthur began to struggle. 

“Calm down, Mister. I have to stitch this us.”

“Du...where’s...”

*

He was waking up again. The man was dripping something into his mouth. It tasted like nothing and also like the best thing in the entire world. Water, he realized. And the doctor from Saint Denis. 

He tried to speak, but the doctor beat him to it. "I just don't see it. This poor soul?"

"He may look poor now, but I assure you he is one of Dutch's boys. One of his most cruel. Kills without thought or mercy."

The doctor met Arthur's eyes. "He's brought the sick and dying off the street and into my office more times than I can count. Brought them all the way here from the outskirts. Sometimes paid their bill."

"Doesn't matter if he nurses stray puppies on the side. Doing some good does not cleanse the man of all evil."

"I suppose. But it does help. Think of all those puppies."

"I'd rather think of all the murder victims and their mourning families. I suggest you do the same, doctor."

*

Night had returned. Arthur woke a third time, deep in its grasp, tucked so tight in a bed that moving was impossible. It didn't stop him from trying. 

A candle flame draped light across the ceiling sometime later. An hour or a minute, Arthur couldn't tell. "That injection was supposed to keep you out for longer, Mr. Morgan."

Arthur expected a Pinkerton. They were surely guarding the place, waiting for the moment when Arthur was well enough to stand on his own at the gallows. But it was the doctor, dressed in sleeping clothes. 

"Moving too much will rip your stitches. And trust me, you need them."

Arthur licked his lips, but his tongue was as dry as desert sand. He could smell sickness. His own sweat. Infection. Death was determined to dig its claws deeper into Arthur. There would be a time--soon he feared--when they'd finally drag him into oblivion.

"Dutch Van der Linde," Arthur rasped. "Have they...?"

The doctor put a firm hand to Arthur's chest, trying to keep him still. "It's true then."

"Is he dead?"

"I suppose not. At least not according to the papers. They usually like detailing such things as lynchings. Right now, they're just reiterating his crimes. And yours. I see you haven't been resting as I suggested."

Arthur rolled his head, coughing away from the doctor and flinching at the pain that shot through his side and curled into his heart. Damn Micah. Traitor. Snake. As if he needed more labels for Arthur to hate him. 

"I don't think they plan to wait much longer though, son."

Arthur found pity in the doctor's eyes. It hurt almost as much as the hole between his ribs. 

"Big names like Van der Linde...they hang them quick before gang members come to their leader's rescue. There was quite a fuss with that O'Driscoll fella here in Saint Denis."

Arthur knew that better than anyone. Sadie filled his mind. Charles. Javier. He didn't know where they were, but they definitely weren't planning a rescue for Dutch. Arthur was his only hope. 

The doctor dropped his voice to a near whisper. "I...I'm to release you into state custody once you're well enough." He glanced over his shoulder as though expecting a Pinketon, and when there wasn't one, the focus in his eyes waned. "Being a doctor is like being a god sometimes. You can usually tell people exactly what's wrong. You can fix them. Or at least try to make them comfortable. But it's times like these that remind me of the fool I truly am."

Arthur's heart was pounding against the doctor's hand. 

"I know you're not a good man, Mr. Morgan. But you're not an evil one either." The doctor pulled the blanket back off Arthur's feet, unbuckling the leather straps at his ankles. It was no wonder Arthur hadn't been able to move. "Van der Linde. They have him in Blackwater. That is where they intend to send you."

"You're...letting me go?"

"I've flushed your wound, but the infection may return. I'll give you supplies. A chance to keep surviving. I'm a healer first. Not a god. I don't condemn anyone. I save them. So I'm saving you."

"I'm sick, doc. You know it."

"We're all dying, Mr. Morgan. You're just dying faster. Doesn't mean you're dead yet."

The doctor unbound Arthur's wrists, and Arthur took the man's hand, clasped it tight. "I owe you."

"Just avoid Blackwater, son. Go slow and easy, and wherever you end up, live like you mean it."

The doctor helped him dress, gave him a stachel of vials and bandages, and led him to the back door, silently passing the room which held a resting Pinkerton. 

Arthur promised he would be careful. That he wouldn't take the doctor's gift in vain. But as soon as he had turned the corner, he bounded for the post office. 

The man behind the counter glanced Arthur over. "You okay, sir?"

"I need a ticket to Blackwater"


	21. Chapter 21

Years. That’s how long ago it felt since he last saw the flat, yellow landscape of Blackwater. Everything had changed-his life, his family, his heart and his mind, but Blackwater was the same city it had been months ago. So much the same that stepping off the ferry and into its docks felt like leaping back in time. Around the corner, Hosea would be faking drunk for intel. Bill would actually be drunk. Dutch would still be wooing Molly, taking her into stores to browse the newest catalogues. He’d still be smoking the best cigars, drinking the best whiskey, letting Arthur off the leash. Letting everyone off the leash. They had been so free in Blackwater. So loaded down with money and opportunity that every move was slow and measured. Their survival felt recreational. They’d all return to camp by nightfall and sing by the fire, full of food and drink and sated by the open night sky. That all seemed like a fairytale now. It obviously had been, because it didn’t last.

Micah.

Arthur visibly shivered, confused by the flush of red-hot rage and the simultaneous chill the name brought. His side wept pus into his bloodied shirt. Sweat clung to his skin. No one spoke to him. Those that looked did so only until Arthur looked back. He had no guns, had only the remainder of the $10 the doctor stuffed into his satchel. Law enforcement would either shoot him on sight or Dutch would hang before his eyes. Both would kill him. 

But he had to try.

The sun hung low in the east, throwing the city in morning shadow. The the sun warmed him in a way it never could in Beaver Hollow. The air was bone-dry despite the river at his back. Arthur took a breath and nearly cried at how easily it came. He stopped to take another. Then another. His lungs still rattled, still ached, but it not longer felt like he was suffocating on himself. His hands shook. Someplace dry and warm, the doctor had said. How short had he cut his life by remaining in the east with Dutch? Would he do it all again? He couldn't be sure of either.

The docks were flooded with people, the streets bustling with wagons. Arthur had no hat to cover his face, so he kept his head down and his eyes on his feet, letting the flow of the crowd guide him. 

"Van der Linde," he heard, and glanced up. 

The crowd was pooling to the gallows. His heart stuttered. He had avoided being this close to the rope since he had nearly been hanged ten years earlier. Dutch had shot the rope as soon as the floor had dropped out from under him. That magic trick has only worked because of Hosea's meticulous planning and detective work. How badly Arthur wished Hosea were here. Luckily, Dutch wasnt. The gallows themselves were vacant save for a handful of lawmen. They were setting up the rope. 

Arthur retreated to the streets. There was only one other place he knew Dutch might be. He had to hurry.

He hesitated for only a second outside the jail. There was no other choice; he went through the front door.

"No bounties today," a man said. There was a barred partition between him and Arthur. Behind the cop and his desk were the bars of a cell. "Big hangin' in a little while."

Arthur walked between the partition, throat closing, hand clenched against his knife wound. He should say something. He should turn tail and run. He should utter one last prayer to the god that had abandoned him. Instead, he stopped in front of the lawman's desk in silence. The lawman looked up, eyebrow cocked. Recognition flashed across his face. Behind him, Dutch straigtened on the edge of the cell bed, eyes widening. Relief weakened Arthur's knees.

"You injured?" The lawman asked. He was a small man, but as he stood, Arthur saw he was also armed to the teeth with autopistols and a shotgun. He grabbed the latter from behind his desk. Dutch shook his head.

Arthur gasped for a breath, bent a little farther into his injured side. "Someone...stabbed me...I..." He dropped to his knees with a thud. 

"Woah now. You're in the wrong place." The lawman shot around the desk, hands clamping on Arthur's arm. "Come on. You gotta get to the doc down the street. Can you make it?"

Arthur groaned in response, drawing Dutch to his feet.

"Can't be dyin' in here, mister. Too much else goin' on." The lawman hefted Arthur up his armpits, nudging him around the partition and toward the door. "I can't leave my post but the doctor is over by the-"

Arthur slammed his fist into the lawman's stomach. The man’s breath left in a huff, face paling, knees dipping. Arthur had hit harder than he thought he could. He muttered an apology before wrapping an elbow around the man’s neck and squeezing. The man went limp, and once Arthur was sure he was well and truly unconscious, let him slip to the floor. 

“Arthur, what in the holy Hell are you doin’?”

Arthur snapped the key ring off the lawman’s belt, spinning on Dutch. Dutch looked as much a mess as he had after narrowly surviving a ship wreck, filthy and unshaven, only now his face was five different shades of blue and black, and dried blood clung to his nose.

Arthur fumbled for the right key. “Happy to see you too.”

“You damn fool, Arthur Morgan. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Arthur jammed a key into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. Dutch, shackled at the wrists despite being caged, grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and yanked him against the bars. Kissed him. Hard. Arthur was breathless by the time Dutch pulled away.

“They’re gonna be here any minute, son. You have to go.”

“Not without you.”

Arthur tried the next key, fingers shaking. It didn’t work. The next didn’t fit. Arthur cursed. There were four more to try. Dutch was gripping his shirtsleeve as if afraid Arthur would take his advice and abandon him. The door was creaking open. 

Arthur froze. Dutch clenched him harder then let him go, eyeing the shotgun the lawman had dropped. Arthur didn’t have time to reach it. The figure at the front was moving around the partition. He recognized the ratty blonde hair. The domineering mustache. The weasel stare between the two. Arthur backed into the cell behind him. Slipped inside. Dutch gaped at Arthur, watching in confused silence as Arthur tucked the keys into his pocket, shut the cell door, and slumped on the bed. 

Micah turned the corner and nudged the lawman with his boot. Glanced up at Dutch. Smiled. Arthur bristled. “What’d you do, Dutch? Poison him with that glare of yours? Ain’t gonna work on me, I’m afraid.”

“Your bravery has finally passed the threshold into stupidity, Micah.” Dutch leaned a hip against the bars. Replace the cuffs with a cigar and he would look almost normal. His calm facade still managed to calm Arthur. 

“Says the man in the cell,” Micah said. “And you, Morgan. I see you lived. How surprising.”

Arthur dug a thumb into his wound, letting the real agony in his expression do the talking. The weaker he looked—as if being behind bars wasn’t enough—the better. “Shut your goddamn mouth, Micah.” 

“What are you doing here?” Dutch snapped. “Ratting me out too passive for you? Decided to just kill me, after all? You fucking coward.” 

“Rat you out? My, Dutch, you’re still in denial. We all know it was Molly. Said it herself. Maybe I’m here to rescue you.” Micah waved a hand. “Or Maybe I though watchin’ you and cowpoke struggle on the rope would make up for the bullshit you two put me through.”

Arthur growled under his breath. “Tortured soul? That’s your excuse? We didn’t make you do nothin’ that—” He broke into a coughing fit that he, for once, didn’t try to suppress.

Micah laughed, checking the lawman’s pockets for change before sauntering to Dutch’s cell. “The whole town is waitin’ at the gallows to see you boys. It’s the perfect time to get our money outta this shit town. You just tell me where it’s at, and maybe I’ll find a way to keep your neck from snappin’.”

Dutch had retained some of his composure, enough to fix Micah with a gaze that made Arthur have to fight a chill. That same dark stare had been on him more often than not the past couple weeks. Growing up with it did not make him immune to its power. But Micah did not feel anything, ever. Except greed. 

“My bounty should keep you covered for awhile yet,” Dutch said, stepping to the side of the cell that faced Arthur. Micah followed him, moving into the aisle between, back to Arthur.

Arthur eased off the bed.

“Come on, Dutch. Don’t be like that,” Micah began.

“Then don’t be so fucking stupid, Micah,” Dutch said. “They’re not going to pay you. They lured you here to hang you right along with us.”

Arthur kicked his cell door open. It slammed into Micah, sent him scrambling. He grasped for his gun but Arthur was already on him, knuckles gliding across Micah’s jaw.

Micah kneed him between the legs, freed a pistol as Arthur staggered, and barrel-whipped him in the temple. Arthur smacked the floor, head spinning. Dutch was screaming. Arthur opened his eyes at the feel of Micah’s gun pressing into his forehead. 

“Micah, don’t do this.” Dutch’s voice shook. 

Micah kicked Arthur in the ribs, hard as he could. Arthur screamed, crled into a ball, felt the rip of stitches and the warmth of blood. Micah kicked him again.

“You’re gonna kill him!” Dutch shouted.

Arthur grabbed Micah’s boot on the next kick and twisted it, hoping to snap his ankle. All he got was another dizzying smack via Micah’s gun. Micah gripped him by the hair and tugged until Arthur had to arch off the floor to keep the pain of it at bay.

“I guess I see it, Dutch,” Micah said. “Arthur used to be a strong, handsome thing. Made you feel powerful making him your whore, I bet. But what’s the point now? Look at him.”

Arthur blinked away blood as it seeped over his lashes. He kept an eye on Micah’s trigger finger turning white from the pressure. Dutch shook the bars of his cell like will alone could free him. Micah gave Dutch a smile. 

Arthur slid a hand into his pocket, feeling the cold press of the cell keys. He threw them at Dutch’s feet. 

Micah went for them and Arthur broke his nose with the palm of his hand. The crunch of cartilage startled them both. Dutch snagged the keys off the floor and began fighting the lock. Micah cursed into his hand, blood painting his fingers. Arthur slapped the gun out of his hand. It clattered to the floor behind him.

“Just die already!” Micah growled, stomping on Arthur’s sternum. 

The key Dutch tried didn’t work. “Micah!”

Arthur gasped, scrambled to stand, but suddenly Micah was straddling his hips, pummeling him with punch after punch. White light bloomed behind Arthur’s eyes. His ears began to ring. Blood lapped his tongue. Dutch moved to the next key, screaming incoherently. 

Then Micah’s hands were cinched around Arthur’s throat.

Darkness. It crept across Arthur’s vision. He dug his nails into Micah’s wrists. Couldn’t get them away. He would die. And Dutch would follow shortly after. 

With his last bit of strength and last bit of air, he shoved Micah and inch to the side and looked at Dutch. “I love—”

Dutch’s eyes caught his. Micah squeezed so tight Arthur felt something in his throat pop. 

The key in Dutch’s hand turned with a click and he kicked the cell door open, threw himself on Micah, and plunged his fingers into Micah’s eyes. Micah screamed. Arthur gasped. Air met his lungs this time. Micah’s hands were gone, on Dutch now, but unable to find purchase. Arthur’s sight was returning but Micah’s was gone. The remains of his eyes drooped across his cheeks. 

Dutch grabbed the gun off the floor, aimed at Micah’s face, and pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments have given me so much life and motivation. Thank you for the encouragement :)


	22. Chapter 22

Arthur stared at Micah, not believing what he saw. Stillness. Bloody, gory stillness. It was unatrual for Micah's mouth to be hanging open like it was and for silence to follow. 

Dutch broke that silence. "Someone definitely heard that gunshot."

It didn't matter what Arthur thought--which, at the moment, was that there was no way in hell he could move. His eyes were swelling shut, his throat was burning like he'd swallowed a live match, and the stitch in his side had turned into an ever widening chasm of hellfire. He spat blood, this time from the damage in his throat rather than the damage in his lungs. It was only a minor relief. 

Dutch tripped over Micah trying to get to Arthur. "You asshole," he barked. "You beautiful, courageous asshole." Dutch grabbed Arthur under the arms and hefted him up against the bars, taking a brief moment to brush the hair off Arthur's forehead and study his eyes. 

"Once we start running, we can't stop."

"I won't," Arthur croaked. 

Dutch handed him Micah's gun. "I don't deserve you, Arthur, I really don't."

Dutch left his side for only a moment to retrieve his weapons and belt from a chest on the opposite side of the room. Arthur trudged toward the door, trembling from ebbing adrenaline and, he feared, blood loss. Dutch kept an arm around Arthur's hips until they were at the front door. The docks were visible through the dusty glass. So was the mob of armed lawmen running at an all out sprint toward the jailhouse. 

Dutch tugged Arthur into a kiss, quick and rough and scratchy from all the overgrown facial hair on both their parts. But it filled Arthur with all the hope he needed and all the love he could feel. 

Dutch squeezed Arthur's hand before drawing his guns. "Stay behind me until I say otherwise."

With that, Dutch kicked the door open and started shooting. 

After the report of Micah's gun right in Arthur’s ear, the cacophany of gunshots and death screams sounded like they were coming from another street. Pretending that was so made Arthur steadier on his feet. He kept Micah's gun at the ready, holding on to the back of Dutch's vest. He didn't trust himself not to stumble.

Bullets whirred past their heads, splintered wood and shattered glass. Instinctively, Arthur began to shunt himself in front of Dutch.

“Arthur!” Dutch shouted, batting him backwards. A bullet ripped through Dutch’s shirtsleeve. Arthur stumbled over his own feet. He shot at the closest lawman and missed. It was like a nightmare, one which he thought too impossible to come true. He was not only useless, he was a burden.

Dutch flinched, but his hit arm stayed in motion, shoving Arthur around the corner of the building. “I’ll hold them off,” Dutch said. "Keep going!"

Arthur went, a spray of plaster and gun smoke following. There was nothing in their way ahead, just clear sky, empty streets, and the seemingly endless stretch of shrubland. But they were horseless in a city known for its mounted police division. They weren't outrunning anyone. 

"Dutch, you know where the Count is?" Arthur realized he was talking to thin air and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. The gang was all he had. No. Dutch. Dutch was all he had. And he'd be damned if he started taking shit orders without question all over again. So he turned back. 

Arthur stormed to the front of the building, gun kicking in his hand. A lawman dropped dead. Then another. His muscle memory did the work, killing mercilessly while his main focus kept on finding Dutch. And there he was, cornered against the wall, surrounded by blue suits. Arthur took a breath, and with its release quickfired his gun. Three men dropped. Blood sprayed across the window. Dutch spun on him, and the terror Arthur saw made his blood run hot. Arthur shot another lawman, hitting too far to the left and reveling in the scream it drew. He aimed for another and heard the dry snap only an empty gun made.

Dutch took the opening Arthur had given him, damp, fallen hair clinging to his face, blood swallowing the of white of his sleeve. He shoved Arthur back around the building. This time Dutch followed him, so this time Arthur kept running. 

They shot down an alleyway, Arthur unknowingly moaning with the effort. He felt the press of spare bullets between his palm and Dutch's. Reloaded his gun. 

Dutch body-slammed him into the wall just before it opened onto the street and white slashed across his vision. Bullets clattered to the ground, and lawmen, too noisy own their own, charged past. Only the hard press of Dutch's body against his kept him from falling into the street.

Arthur groaned as Dutch pulled away, gripping at his side. His shirt was dripping blood. Dutch looked at him in horror. 

"I-I wasn't thinking," Dutch spluttered. 

"S'okay."

The thunder of hoofbeats came down the street they had first abandoned, and Arthur glimpsed the familiar clothes adorned only by Pinkertons. He should have guessed they'd be here. 

"What do we do, Dutch?"

"You don't have a plan? A horse stashed somewhere? A gatling gun set up on the roof, even?"

A plan. That would have been the smart thing to have, but it seemed the cursed disease had begun to eat away at his brain along with his lungs. 

Dutch must have saw something telling in Arthur's expression. He cursed into his hand as it trailed down his face. It wasn’t that long ago that Arthur had gotten on to Dutch for winging things as he had done with Cornwall. This whole situation was the epitome of ‘winging it’. 

“Don’t panic,” Dutch said.

“I’m not.”

He was.

On both ends of the alleyway, the river of lawmen continued, only now some came from the opposite direction as if they had already delved down every street and were circling back. All it would take was one glance in their direction and they were dead. Dead because Arthur imagined the Pinkertons were done with the hope of a hanging. Dutch was too slippery for that.

“Climb.”

Arthur followed Dutch’s gaze to the boarded windows over his own head. It was just a two story building, but a flat one. The only footholds were two four-inch-deep window sills. 

“Don’t think about it,” Dutch said. “Just go.”

Arthur dug his fingers between boards and climbed, sure he felt eyes all over his back and even more sure that the boards were prying free with his weight. He made it to the top of the first window and reached for the sill of the second, hands and legs trembling as they had in the snowstorm at Colter. 

‘Suck it the fuck up,’ he thought. The phrase was Dutch’s, and the memory of it came crawling back every time he was hurt and in a bind. Arthur had been trying to break a horse and it broke him instead—broke his leg in two places. It threw him off, stomped on him, then fled into the wilderness never to be seen again. Dutch made Arthur walk back to their campsite until Hosea met them halfway, saw Arthur holding back tears, and threw him over his shoulder. It was one of the few times Hosea was so furious with Dutch he didn’t talk to him for almost two days. Walking with a shattered leg had felt like torture. Dutch claimed it to be a lesson. Either way, that bad been worse than this. So, this, he could do.

He jumped for the second ledge and, knowing he’d just have to try again if he fell, managed to get a decent enough grip to grab one of the boards above it with a different hand. Then he got hold of the one higher. Then the highest. He gripped the edge of the roof and pulled himself over, shaking with exhilaration, heart pounding with it, beating hard and frantic against the bones Micah had stomped. He rolled on his back, watching fuzzy white spots dance in the blue sky, coughing into his fist.

Dutch appeared. His hands groped Arthur’s boots, his shins, his thighs, until he was far enough from the edge of the roof that he could collapse beside him. Dutch shut his eyes as if it would help him catch his breath. Arthur coughed until there wasn’t enough air to keep going. Then he gasped, and Dutch was sitting up on his elbow, holding his breath while Arthur struggled for his. The sound was atrocious, like his windpipe was swollen to a pinpoint and clogged with mud. He tugged at his shirt collar and rolled again, stomach convulsing and back arching toward the sky. Blood dribbled off his lips. No wire was coming. 

Dutch slapped Arthur’s back, rubbed his shoulders, ran a frantic hand through his sweat-drenched hair. “Breathe, Arthur,” Dutch begged.

He wanted to. God did he want to. 

*

Arthur was tucked against the small protruding chimney in the center of the roof when he opened his eyes. The sky had gone gray, and what had woken him stirred the silence again: the ominous roar of thunder.

He lifted his head. A dark cloud hung over the land across the river, pummeling what he supposed to be Leymone with rain and lightning. The air was thick with it all. The wind was almost cold, though the sky over Blackwater was still mostly sunny. He realized he was shirtless. 

Half of the stitches in his side had ripped out like his skin was nothing but butter. The rest were barely hanging on. Dutch was going through the satchel the doctor gave Arthur. There was a lawman rotting a few feet away from him, throat blackened with broken blood vessels. 

Dutch spun with a vial in his hand and lines between his eyes vanished. “Oh, Arthur. I thought I’d seen those eyes for the last time.”

“How long?” Arthur croaked, trying to sit up.

Dutch set the vial down to get his hands behind Arthur and push him. “Twenty minutes at most.”

“That all?’

“I prefer none whatsoever, but I guess you never were one to listen.”

“Right.” Arthur swallowed a groan as Dutch brought him to his feet. “And that feller?” He nodded to the dead lawman.

“Five. They’re gonna start missing him.” Dutch eyed his stitches as he stood and swept the vial back into Arthur’s satchel. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. We don’t have time for it, anyway.”

“You shoulda left me.”

“Should have.”

Arthur felt a pinch in his heart and tried not to let it show on his face. Of course, that’s just how Dutch was. He was rarely as soft as he had been with Arthur as of late. In fact, it should have been a relief to hear him back to his old self. But now all those threats—like ‘if you don’t hurry up on that broken leg I’m gonna leave you out here to the wolves’—that had once seemed innocuous felt like they had always been leading up to something. Like maybe the train robbery where Dutch had fully intended to ditch him. So he could what? Split the money with Micah alone? Was he that greedy? Was he...more like Micah than Arthur had wanted to consider?

“If we can make that gap we can get to the edge of town without having to get on the ground.”

“And then?’ Arthur asked, shoving his shirt into his satchel. Dutch had cut it in half trying to get Arthur out of it, it seemed. 

“And then we hope no one sees us run outta here with our tails tucked.”

“There are probably patrols all over the countryside.”

“One problem at a time.” Dutch stopped at the gap in buildings, letting Arthur make the jump first. “You’ve gone soft on me, son.”

The pinch in his heart turned into a squeeze. Arthur huffed. Of course he’d gone soft. He was dying. He opened his mouth to snap back, but then Dutch elaborated. 

“Coming for me like you have. Saving my life twice in a day without a second thought. The look on your face when you saw me surrounded by those assholes down there. You’ve always had that hard exterior, Arthur. I like seeing what’s underneath it.”

Suddenly the hot rage turned to hot embarrassment. He tipped his head as if his hat was there to hide his face. Dutch let a laugh slip, slapping Arthur’s ass. 

“Jump, boy. We ain’t got all day.”

They crept to the edge of town with their eyes on the surrounded buildings. If the lack of suits on the streets was any indication, most of the lawmen were already searching for Dutch outside the city. Arthur thought maybe his brief lapse in consciousness had been a blessing after all. At least until they were out there with the search parties. 

Dutch stopped, eyes toward the shop across the street. “I’ll be damned.”

“What’s wrong?”

Dutch smiled at him. “For once, nothing.”

Arthur glanced over the ledge. The man in the fine suit and hat stuck out like a sore-thumb in most towns, even ones of higher wealth. Arthur’s knees threaten to give out. “Trelawny.” 

Dutch laughed again. It was a sound that steadied Arthur’s hands and made his heart hammer at the same time. 

“What’s he doing?” Arthur asked.

“Hopefully saving our asses. Let’s see if we can’t sneak down there.”

Arthur was well aware how odd he looked—even more so than Trelawny—half dressed, badly bruised, and skewered open. It earned him several curious stares before they made it to the right street. As soon as they were around the corner, Trelawny’s voice boomed toward them.

“Gentlemen! Cousin Sadie mentioned you were here and I knew I just had to...” Trelawny hesitated upon seeing Arthur. “...offer you a ride home.”

“So good to see you, my friend.” Dutch shook Trelawny’s hand, trying to upkeep whatever the conman’s charade had been, but even Trelawny was at a loss for words seeing Dutch beyond filthy and Arthur half-dead.

“This way, boys,” he said. “I brought the wagon so you can sleep off your hangovers. Aunt Martha’s heart can’t handle seeing you two in such sorry states.”

“You’re a saint amongst men,” Dutch said.

Trelawny laughed, but his eyes, catching on Arthur again, didn’t convey the pleasure his voice did. “Let’s hope not. Or else we’re all doomed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for all the love!!!


	23. Chapter 23

Somehow Trelawny, the sly bastard that he was, had managed to commandeer an honest-to-god stagecoach from some poor driver. He said the passengers had given him a bit of trouble, but it had been nothing he couldn't handle with a bit of schmoozing. He claimed the wagon was a necessary evil. He would be noticable to the public, but to the lawmen, he would blend in.

Arthur was barely listening as Trelawny recounted the day's events, busy instead with trying to worm away from Dutch's prodding fingers.

"It can wait," Arthur murmured, seeking the comfort of a seat and finding it traitorously hard and unyielding. He felt broken all over. His bones ached, his head throbbed, and it seemed his throat would never be the same. And then there was the whole gaping wound in his side. It had nearly killed him once already. He knew it wasn't about to give up. 

"Hold tight, gentlemen," Trelawny said, shutting them in the coach and heading to the helm. "We will be off-roading a bit."

Not five minutes later, Arthur's stomach began to protest. Off-roading a bit had been an understatement considering Trelawny had sent the horses into the hills as soon as Blackwater city limits was at their backs. Arthur gripped the seat, sweating and swearing and daring not to move even his eyes. Any extra jostling and he would be hurling his guts into their new ride. It was an abuse he knew his throat and ribs couldn't handle.

Dutch squeezed into the seat beside him, placing a hand on the back of Arthur's neck. It was ice to Arthur's fevered skin and he leaned into it with a tight-lipped grunt of appreciation.

"You're doin' great, Arthur."

Dutch had been studying the doctor's vials again. Nothing was labeled. And worse, they seemed nearly useless at this point. Throwing a sprinkle of iodine on the cavern between his ribs would be like a mother's kiss to a severed head. It wouldn't do jack shit. 

Arthur took a breath with Dutch's repeated suggestion of it, and that's what sent him over the edge. Arthur kicked the coach door open and spewed burst after burst of stomach acid on the ground. 

Trelawny had stopped the horses by the time Arthur felt he was emptied out. Arthur felt him staring, felt Dutch rubbing circles down his bare spine. Something unspoken must have passed between the two of them, because next Arthur knew the horses were moving again.

Arthur pulled the door shut and groaned into his hands. Dutch thankfully said nothing. Arthur fell asleep against his chest. 

*

Their voices were what woke Arthur, muffled yet odd against the otherwise natrual sound of coyotes and crickets. Night had fallen, and judging by the temperature, they were no longer is West Elizabeth. He was lying on the floor of the coach, covered with Trelawny's suit jacket.

"...gang has scattered like the wind," Trelawny said. "Ms. Adler said your name was in the paper. Yours and Arthur's. Those without the means to send rescue seemed to have vanished without a word."

Arthur held his breath and waited for Dutch's screaming fit. Dutch was not often one to scream, but the past few weeks had brought the unhinged side of him front and center. 

"After everything," was all Dutch said. Even his voice was worn. Arthur imagined Dutch had paced his cell all throughout the night. With death so close, was sleeping even neccessary? No. But he had lived after all, like he always did. Arthur wasn't sure why he felt so bitter about that. 

"You still have Arthur. Your gang started with two. I imagine it will flourish again with two."

Dutch sighed. "He needs a doctor."

"I've learned a fair few things on my excursions. I'll do what I can for the dear boy. I'll even take a horse and see about bringing a Doctor here, if need be. But I'm afraid taking him into Strawberry will get us all killed."

Arthur had just begun to drift back to sleep when the coach door squeaked open. Arthur cracked his eyes and groaned.

"I need a look at you, Arthur, if you'll allow it."

Arthur nearly told him fuck off. But that was the pain talking. Trelawny was trying to help him, and if Arthur didn't let him, there would be more blood on the coach floor beneath him than in him.

"Sure."

Dutch had let his usually emotionless expression crumble hours ago. He looked pale in the lantern light, fingers curled around his chin and Trelawny slid his jacket off Arthur and looked into the stab wound. Arthur swallowed against a surge of nausea. 

"You said Micah did this?"

Dutch answered with a firm, "yes," obviously ending the conversation before it could begin.

"I think this is to flush the wound. All that redness here? Looks like infection. Quite serious."

"Quite."

Liquid rolled across his ribs and suddenly there was pain like a lighting strike shooting across his exposed nerves. He bit his tongue on accident. Dutch moved to hold him still.

"What the hell are you doing, Josiah?" Dutch barked. 

"Working, Mr. Van der Linde. Working." Trelawny's warm hand enveloped Arthur's. "Going to wrap you up tight, dear boy. We will worry about stitches tomorrow."

Arthur nodded once. It was all he could do. He just wanted to sleep.

*

Hosea lead the way, the sun shining through the hole in his back and lighting the docks ahead. There was a faceless but roaring crowd around the gallows. Agent Ross and Agent Milton slipped the noose over Dutch’s head. Arthur opened his mouth to shout but made no noise, broke into a run but couldn’t get past Hosea. The trapdoor dropped. The crowd went dead silent. Dutch dropped and Arthur heard his neck snap.

There were hands holding Arthur down. He pushed against them, a scream ripping through his throat. It was Trelawny’s face leering over his, hat missing and hair askew. 

“It’s all right, my boy. Everything’s okay now.”

Arthur went slack, eyes searching the dark sky only to realize there was a tent over him. He was wrapped in Trelawny’s bed roll. He didn’t remember moving from the coach. 

“Dutch...?” Arthur croaked.

“He has dearly offered to find us something to eat.”

Arthur held a hand over his heart, willing it to steady before it busted through his sternum. “In the middle of the night?”

“He needed to clear his head.” Trelawny peeled the blanket off Arthur’s chest, drawing the lantern closer. “Let me check this, will you?”

Arthur nodded and scrubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the image of Dutch’s swinging body. 

“I admire you, Arthur, I really do.” Trelawny said. Arthur felt his skin tearing away as his bandages did. “You’ve always done right by Dutch. But...”

Arthur squirmed away from Trelawny’s touch before thinking better of it. His head was swimming like he was still on the ferry. Like he hadn’t even gotten to Blackwater yet. His eyes shot open, finding the same tent and the same Trelawny.

“But perhaps you should let it go,” Trelawny finished.

Arthur sucked in a ragged breath. “What...are we talking about?”

Trelawny sighed. He lifted the lantern higher to lock eyes with Arthur, his hand bloody. “You see it, Arthur. He isn’t the man we started riding with.”

“He...”

“I know you’re vulnerable right now, and I know if you weren’t on your back you’d break my jaw for saying so, but that doesn’t mean you need to rely on him any longer.”

“On Dutch?”

“Yes, on Dutch. I fear without Hosea...” Trelawny dropped his voice to a whisper. “I can take care of you.”

This made Arthur sit up. “You what?”

“For as long as you want. Need, I mean. Or...either. Arthur, you know I’ve always had a soft spot for you.”

Arthur had that head-spinning feeling again, overly aware of Trelawny’s hand on his chest and how his heart was picking up speed again. As far Arthur knew, Trelawny claimed to be married, but now he was remembering the lingering touches on their way to the gambling boat. All the side glances Arthur blamed on Trelawny’s off-kilter nature. How in Beaver Hollow Trelawny reused to leave the gang until he had Arthur’s blessing.

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered. “I-m sorta confused. Are you sayin’—”

“Ignore him, Arthur.”

Dutch’s deep voice startled them both. Trelawny drew his hand away, straightening his shoulders. “Ah, yes. Ignore me, dear boy. Just fooling around.”

Dutch’s kept his glare fixed on Trelawny. “You okay, Arthur?”

“Feel like I’ve been run down by a wild herd of horses.” Arthur sat up higher, trying to draw Dutch’s attention. “But I think I’ll live thanks to Trelawny.” 

Dutch’s eyes flashed to his, almost violently, as if the man’s name coming out of his mouth was a slap in the face. Maybe it was. But maybe, Arthur thought, Dutch shouldn’t make thanking Trelawny feel like a crime, especially considering Trelawny liberated them from Blackwater.

“I’ll take it from here, Josiah,” Dutch said. “I brutalized a boar but there’s a decent amount of meat left. It’s cooking.”

“Wonderful.” Trelawny shot to his feet. “I’ll...let you two know when it’s ready, shall I?”

“That’d be great.” Dutch watched him go, jaw flexing. When he looked back to Arthur, his expression softened, but not enough to ease Arthur’s terror. He didn’t think he’d ever see this side of Dutch. The jealous side. “Lay back down before you hurt yourself more.”

Arthur obeyed, mostly because the strain of his remaining stitches was getting to be too painful. “I don’t think he was—”

“Don’t start, Arthur.”

Arthur huffed, swallowing cough that tried to follow. “We owe him.”

“So what? You think you have to fuck him now?”

Arthur wheezed a short laugh. “You serious, Dutch?’

“As serious as a goddamn heart attack. You want to test me on that?”

Arthur lifted his head, ending up on the wrong end of the glare that had been on Trelawny just moments before. “No.”

“Good.” Dutch slammed a canteen on the ground. “Drink what you want.” His voice shot up a pitch and took on Trewlany’s ridiculous accent. “Or need. Or want.”

“Dutch—” Suddenly there were fingers undoing the buttons on his pants. Arthur gripped Dutch’s wrist. “Jesus, what are you doin’?”

“Well I thought I’d clean you, Arthur, unless you’d rather keep sleeping in your own blood.”

Arthur glanced over Dutch to the silhouette of the stagecoach. There were no tent flaps for privacy. Just open ends that led to wild animals and whoever happened to be walking by. He had expected Trelawny’s tent to be the most lavish of them all.

“Hand that canteen over when you’re done,” Dutch said, tugging Arthur’s pants off his ankles and the bedroll out from under him. 

Chill bumps devoured Arthur’s skin, cold air brushing all the raw and sensitive places. Then came Dutch’s hands, wet with canteen water and rubbing up his leg. Arthur’s anxiety withered. Dutch was touching him. It had been something he’d wanted for so long, and this was the first time it didn’t feel like a dream. He shut his eyes, trying to memorize the sensation.

“Arthur,” Dutch growled, “you better not still be thinking about Trelawny.”

Dutch brushed his knuckles against Arthur’s balls. Pressed a kiss to his half-hard cock. Arthur almost kicked him out of surprise. It turned to Bliss as Dutch took Arthur into his mouth, nudging his legs apart to lay between them. Arthur bit down on his fist. Dutch pulled back. 

“Stop thrusting, son, or you’re going to bust whatever stitches you got left.”

Dutch swallowed him down to the hilt, gagging. Arthur moaned. Dutch was touching him and Dutch was gagging on him and now Dutch was running a finger down his taint. Sparks shot off in Arthur’s stomach and down his pelvis. He twisted his fingers in Dutch’s hair. 

“Oh God, please, Dutch. Ah!”

Dutch pulled back with a pop. He had a laugh in his voice. “Shh. Please what?”

“Fuck me,” he whispered.

God he sounded needy. 

“I want to, Arthur. More than anything in the fucking world, but...” Dutch dragged his nails down Arthur’s hips. “I shouldn’t have last time and I sure as hell shouldn’t now. Not in the state you’re in.”

“Please,” Arthur groaned. “Please. Please, I’ll do anything.”

“I don’t want you to do anything except get better.”

“I need you.”

“Just stay still and I’ll finish you.”

“No, no, no.”

“Arthur. Listen to me.” Dutch lifted himself up until he was face to face with Arthur, holding his weight off him. “I will take you in every way in any place for as long and hard as you want for the rest of our lives. But I can’t do that if you don’t get better and you’re not going to get better if I rearrange your insides while they’re nearly hanging out of you.”

Dutch kissed him then went back between his legs, grazing Arthur’s balls with his teeth. Arthur moaned and Dutch slapped a hand over his mouth, taking Arthur back into his own, free hand rubbing circles around Arthur’s hole. Arthur curled his toes, already so close, already gripping at Dutch’s head as if in terror that the pleasure might stop.

Then Trelawny appeared outside the tent. “Gentlemen, the food is—oh.”

That’s when Arthur shot his load down Dutch’s throat.

Arthur screamed, hips bucking, holding Dutch’s head in a vise grip and using his lips to ride out every last burst of his orgasm. Dutch lifted his head when Arthur went slack, glancing back at Trelawny who immediately disappeared. Dutch was grinning when he turned back around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ur welcome Trelawny


	24. Chapter 24

Arthur was shivering once he’d come down from his high. With the cold too came the humiliation. Trelawny had not only witnessed Dutch between his legs but had seen Arthur right at the peak of orgasm, gasping and writhing and slack-jawed. That made it all worse somehow. He thought of the time Hosea had walked in on him masturbating and how much more traumatic it would have been if Arthur had came as Hosea watched.

Fuck. Hosea. What would he think about all this?

“Let’s get you by the fire,” Dutch said, dousing him with he last bit of water. “I’ll take you to the river in the morning to wash better.”

“I ain’t goin’ out there,” Arthur said. His voice was even more hoarse, and he tried not to think about how loud he had screamed Dutch’s name.

“Look, I didn’t exactly want Trelawny to see that either, but you’re gonna get a cold if we’re not careful. That’s the last thing you need.” Dutch rummaged through Arthur’s bag, retrieving the cleanest strip of shirt and dabbing Arthur as dry as he could. The tent in Dutch’s pants was disappearing, and when Arthur palmed at it, Dutch hesitated, but ultimately pushed Arthur’s hand away. “Let me get your pants on. Gotta get you warm.”

Trelawny stiffened as they approached the fire, Dutch with his arm around Arthur in a more possessive than helpful way. Arthur eased himself to the ground while Dutch picked through the cooked pork Trelawny had set aside.

Arthur waved it away. “I ain’t hungry.”

“Eat,” Dutch demanded.

Trelawny stared at Arthur through the fire, fingers tapping on his knee. Arthur failed at meeting his eyes. Dutch nudged Arthur with an elbow and shoved a piece of pork in his hand. It was wet and greasy and in the distance he could hear the boar's relatives squawking in dismay. He took a bite and had to close his eyes to be able to chew.

"I'm afraid I must be moving on soon, gentlemen," Trelawney said, lacking his usual verbrato. "I'll leave you with the stagecoach and three of the four horses. Take my tent too. I can get another in Strawberry."

Arthur opened his eyes, unsure what it all meant. He supposed it meant Trelawney was still serious about moving on from the gang. Arthur didn't blame him, but for some reason the thought of Trelawney's abandonment terrified him now. Now that Micah was dead. Now that things could go back to normal. Things would go back to normal, wouldn't they?

Arthur threw up in his own lap. 

He didn't mean to. He definitely hadn't wanted the attention, but he had it now. Dutch was on him in a second, and Trelawney wasn't far behind. 

"Fuck, m' sorry," Arthur began, only to vomit again. This time he leaned forward far enough to miss his pants, even though the hot burn of stomach acid was already making it through the fabric to his skin. 

Dutch rubbed his back. Trelawny took his pocket square and handed it out to Arthur who took it with trembling fingers. 

"The infection is making you sick," Trelawney said.

"Maybe it will kill me before the TB does."

"What?"

A hard look settled on Dutch's face. "We need to get a doctor out here or find a way to get you into town."

"Dutch..." Arthur wiped his mouth, testing the words before saying them. "There ain't much point in worryin' about me. You know that. Let's focus on you. What do we gotta do to get you somewhere safe and outta sight?"

Trelawny looked between the two of them, lips parted but not speaking. Dutch gritted his teeth. "Saving you is the only point right now. Got it?"

"No I don't got it. What about John? He's probably dyin' in that hovel and you're just gonna ignore him over me who ain't got hope of recoverin'?"

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, I'm afraid I'm a little lost."

"Shut up, Trelawney," Dutch and Arthur said together. Then Dutch went on. "We aren't talkin' about this right now, Arthur, and that's final."

"I'll talk about it all I want," Arthur snapped, coughing twice before he was able to go on. "And I wanna talk about how you've gotta accept the fact that I won't be here much longer!"

Dutch stood straight, face paling in the fire light. Rage danced across his features. Then dismay. He turned to the stagecoach and shut himself inside. The slam of the door echoes through the trees like a gunshot. 

Arthur and Trelawny glanced at each other, all earlier embarrassments forgotten. "Allow me to help you back to the tent, Arthur."

He hadn't the energy to argue, so he let Trelawny pick him off the ground and guide him back to the bed roll. He disappeared only to return with a folded pair of dress pants and union suit. 

"If you need help changing I'll get Dutch out here."

"Thank you, Trelawny. It's okay though. I got it."

Trelawny hesitated at the mouth of the tent. "Listen, Arthur. I'm sorry to have misjudged yours and Dutch's...relationship. However, I stand by what I said earlier. You are giving him everything. You always have. Even if you're getting something from him now, try not to forget how unbalanced the give and take between you two remains."

Arthur sat in silence, too tired to fully concentrate but too wary to ask him to stop.

"I've run with Dutch for as long as I have because he's good at what he does. Manipulation. He has lost everything except you. And he will do whatever it takes to keep at least someone by his side."

Arthur tastes blood as he swallowed. "What are you saying exactly?"

"I've just never known Dutch to go for men. Ever. And now suddenly he has deepened the relationship with you just after all his other relationships have fractured. I fear what might happen to your heart if I'm right... If Dutch is only placating you so you don't leave him too."

His stomach flipped, twisted, lurched toward his throat. He shut his eyes, trying to keep his guts from spilling again. When he opened them, Trelawny was gone. 

*

The soft chatter of birds woke him. A thick layer of mist sat between the tent and the stagecoach, white compared to the dark gray sky. The sun was coming but hadn't quite made it. 

Arthur was in so much pain he thought he should probably just shut his eyes and hope sleep took him back, but then Trelawny's parting words rang through his head. He sat up too quickly. Roiling black dots blotted out his vision for a moment. He crawled to the opening of the tent and onto the dew laden grass. 

"Dutch?" It felt like he had swallowed sandpaper. 

A couple birds scattered from a tree overhead. A coyote yipped father off. That was the only answer he got. 

He got to his feet and trudged forward until he could see the remnants of their campfire, cool and blackened. Three hitches horses nipped at the ground. The air was thick with humidity, and Arthur couldn't stop the coughs that rocketed out of him. They dropped him to his knees.

"Dutch!" Arthur gasped, the cry giving way to a rougher set of coughs that began to splatter blood by his hands. 

A wave of terror overpowered sense. Dutch had left him. Didn't need him anymore. Trelawny was right and it didn't matter anyway because he was fucking dying in the middle of nowhere all alone when being alone was the one thing that he feared above all. He wailed. 

"Arthur?" Dutch bounded from the woods, and as soon as Arthur saw his panicked face, he cried harder. Arthur curled into his knees, shaking with the power of his sobs. Dutch collided into him, pawing at Arthur's shoulders, trying to get Arthur to look at him. "What's wrong? What happened?"

What happened was that Dutch hadn't left him after all and Arthur couldn't decide if that was a good or a bad thing. He shoved Dutch away. "You're gonna get yourself killed!" Blood and spit left his lips in a spray that thankfully missed Dutch. This time. "I'm already slowing you down. Probably already gotten you sick."

Dutch tried to feel his forehead. "That fever's makin’ you talk crazy."

"Leave me alone!"

Dutch's warm hands left Arthur's back. "That what you want, son?"

Arthur covered his face, muffled his weeping with his hands. Still, he managed a hard, "yes!" 

He was useless. His lungs were useless. Every cough was rending them into shreds. Every second Dutch worried about him he dragged himself closer to the noose.

"Just go."

"Go?"

"Leave, Dutch! Get John. The others. Take care of them."

"Arthur--"

"Please! Just leave! I-I don't want you no more!"

"You...what...?"

Arthur lifted his head. "I don't want you," he repeated. He did. More than anything. "Don't you think you've done enough? I'm sick because of you!" He was sick because he beat Mr. Downes to death. "You're a foul excuse of a human being." Sometimes. But damn if Arthur didnt love him anyway. " I fucking hate you."

"...I see."

Arthur cried harder at that, stomach convulsing and nails digging into his face. His heart was shattering and he was doing it to himself. And to Dutch. 

Dutch was silent save for his steps away from Arthur. There was the rough clatter of a falling tent. The thud of hooves and snap of leather straps and buckles. Arthur couldn’t get himself together and it only worsened when he heard the snap of reins and the creak of the stagecoach lurching out of mud. It was what Dutch had intended, for who knew how long. Leaving Arthur behind. 

Arthur crumpled on his side, gasping for a breath after breath that turned into sob after sob. He wanted to die. He was ready. Dutch was free, Micah was dead, John had his family. The gang, whatever could be salvaged of it, had each other. He was done being the ghost of a man and ready to just be a ghost. See Issac. See Hosea and Lenny. 

Dutch picked Arthur up like he weighed nothing, one arm under his legs and the other around his shoulders. Arthur struggled. The coach door was wide open and the floor inside was cushioned with their extra clothes and Trelawny’s bed roll. Dutch eased him onto it.

“Dutch, no.”

“Stop crying, love. You’re breaking my heart.” Dutch wiped the sweat off Arthur’s forehead with the back of his hand. “Why in the world would you think I’d ever leave you?”

Arthur couldn’t stop the tears. He hadn’t cried this hard since he found those graves outside Eliza’s house, didn’t think he ever would again. But something about being on the precipice of death had smacked the ego out of him. Didn’t matter what he did anymore.

“You may not believe me—may not want to—but I felt something snap inside me when you gave Mary that ring. It wasn’t a coincidence that I got serious with Molly a few days later. I didn’t understand it at the time. Maybe I still don’t. But I know that when you were around twenty I started to feel things about you that no man should. Had I known how you felt...had I known exactly what I felt...well, I intend to make up for all the lost time. I intend to love you openly with all the fire that I have inwardly for fifteen years. I intend to keep you alive and at my side for as long as you’ll let me. Because I can’t live, really live, without you.”

Arthur stared up at him, head sinking into the bed roll. The pants he had thrown up on were clean and damp from river water where apparently Dutch had washed them earlier this morning and draped them across one of the seats to dry. Arthur sniffled, tried to speak but found his throat clogged with another sob. There were two parts of him fighting with each other, the loudest one reminding him that without Micah, he was the only one left who would stroke Dutch’s ego, and surely Dutch knew that too.

“I heard what Trelawny told you,” Dutch said. “What hurts is that you believed him.”


	25. Chapter 25

In Arthur's dreams, Hosea died time and time again. No matter how much Arthur wanted to scream--tell him to not turn his back on the Pinkertons--all that came from his throat was a river of blood. Then came the gunshot. Hosea staggered, a startled look in his eyes. Arthur flinched toward the door before he thought better of it. Dutch, beside him, didn't move. 

Hosea hit the sidewalk with a gentle thud. It was as if his departure from the world was not the seismic event that it seemed. But all those years flashed before Arthur's eyes. All the love. All the devotion. Hosea was a better man than Arthur knew he'd ever be himself, and when Hosea's old withered body dropped, Arthur had wished it had been him. He still did.

The dream would start again with Arthur, Hosea, and Dutch discussing the plan inside Shady Belle, and even knowing what was coming, the dream wouldn't let Arthur speak it. 

On what had to be Hosea's fortieth death, Arthur woke to a hand rubbing along his bruised chest. Dutch had shaved his excess stubble, but the room was lit only by one small candle that cast his face into near-impenetrable shadow. Only his eyes were touched by the fire, and they glinted, wet. 

"Hosea's not here, son," Dutch said, as though Arthur had been calling Hosea's name in real life with all the fervor he wanted to in his dream. "But I've got you."

Arthur wasn't sure where he was, or, for one blissful moment, where Hosea was. But sleep took him and, this time, let him rest. 

*

A sharp knocking sound forced Arthur's swollen eyes open. He was in a strange bed in a strange room with view of a water wheel churning with the flow of a creek. Dutch was bent forward in a chair at Arthur's side, lightly snoring. 

The series of knocks came again. Arthur slid out of bed, somewhat startled by the patient gown that had replaced his clothes. He stumbled to the window, and the woodpecker that had been hammering into the wooden window frame took flight. 

Strawberry. 

Dutch had brought him into town, a town not far from Blackwater. 

"You've lost a lot of muscle, but not all."

Arthur twisted to find Dutch's groggy eyes on his backside. His bare backside. Arthur pinched the gown shut at the base of his spine. "Why are we here?"

The easy smile dropped from Dutch's face at Arthur's tone. "You obviously don't remeber how close the stagecoach came to being your deathbed. I had no choice."

"You had every choice. If someone recognizes you--"

Dutch put up his hands. "We've been here for days. By now the law will be looking for us as far as Emerald Ranch. Not that I'd go near that haunted hick town."

"Days? Jesus."

"Sit down. You're gonna rip your new stitches."

Arthur did sit, only because his head and vision began to swim. Despite the wooziness, he felt better than he had in a while. He lifted the corner of his gown to study his ravaged flesh. The burning bright-red had eased to pink. He would have a hell of a scar--his stab wound and previous stitches had warped with the new set--but the sutures were clean and tight, and the stench of infection had been replaced with the bittersweet stink of alcohol. 

Dutch put a hand on Arthur's knee. "Rest for me."

"How are we gonna pay the bill?"

"Rest. It's taken care of."

"We ain't got money."

"No, but the fine people of this tourist town have plenty. Been a hell of a long time since I had to resort to pickpocketing to get by, but I still have the touch. Now rest."

Now that fever had released him, Arthur's mind rifled through all the worse case scenarios at a neck-break speed. Dutch seemed to see it all in Arthur's expression. "I've worried enough for the both of us, my boy."

Arthur curled onto his good side, imagining Dutch bare-faced and passing the newspaper stand that held a hundred copies of his photo right on the front. It was reckless. And endearing. 

Arthur reached for Dutch's hand, relieved to feel fingers intertwining with his own. "Dutch."

"Yes, Arthur."

"They never found us in the mountains."

Dutch stared at the ceiling as though reliving their time at Colter. The deadly bite of wind and its howls between their cabin's crumbling walls. Only a wall had separated Dutch's room from Arthur's. Dutch's and Molly's. Arthur had a new journal and decided it best to leave his lovesickness out of this one. It was a bad start, having to flee Blackwater and their fortune. But it was still a fresh start. He hoped not writing his feelings would make them go away. 

"You'll die up there," Dutch whispered.

"I'll die anywhere."

"There, you'll die faster." Ditch fixed him with a piercing gaze that dared Arthur to argue. "Warm and dry. We need somewhere warm and dry."

"We'd have to get past Blackwater."

"Then we will."

Arthur shook his head, the rough sheets of the bed whispering in his ear. "Our family is north." Dutch took a sharp breath and Arthur kept going before he could speak. "Hosea wouldn't want us to abandon them."

"They," Dutch spoke through a snarl, "abandoned me first."

"Don't you remember what Hosea promised Abigail when Jack was born? He promised that we'd give Jack the best life we could, the life we never got. If we did everything else right, Hosea still wouldn't forgive us for doing wrong by that boy. Abigail can't support him without sellin' herself, not in this fine part of the world. And we both know John ain't ever gonna get his shit together."

Dutch laughed at that, albeit a short, saddened laugh.

"Miss Grimshaw. She's always done right by you." Arthur paused, Molly's gut-shot corpse filling his mind. "What she thought was right by you, anyway. She's one of the reasons that O'Driscoll's bullet didn't kill me. And--"

Dutch pulled his hand away. "I get it, Arthur."

But he didnt. Arthur knew he didn't by the scowl carved across is face. Arthur had learned long ago that talking back to Dutch was never a good idea. He used to get whipped for such things, then got extra chores once he outgrew Dutch and Hosea, and then as an adult recieved a thinly-veiled look of rage or disgust or disappointment. The last hurt the worst. But Dutch wasn't some god to bow down to, no matter how much Arthur idolized him growing up. He was a fallible human being, same as anyone. He had made a mistake. Arthur had to make him see that or there would be no going back to what they had. 

"Let's be honest," he said. "These past several weeks, you were there physically, but otherwise... none of us knew what was going to happen. It weren't that we lost our faith. It was that you lost faith in yourself. You didnt think your plans were gonna work or were gonna get some of us killed, so you kept silent. They only abandoned you because you abandoned them first."

Red had crept up Dutch's neck and colored the tips of his ears. Arthur's stomach lurched. He was going to get hit for that for sure. After seeing Dutch bash that old woman's head in Guarma, Arthur knew Dutch was more capable of violence than ever. But Dutch said, "I can't believe that I trusted Micah. Especially over you."

Arthur relaxed a little. "He said the right things. I didnt."

"Exactly." Dutch stared at Arthur's hand as if regretting ever releasing it. "I know I'm not perfect, Arthur. He made me feel like I was. And that should have been all the warning I needed to know he was full of shit."

"You were scared is all," Arthur realized, because of course he had been. Dutch had dragged them all over three states to get them out of a mess he created, and everything he did seemed to worsen it. Pressure had come from all sides, even from Hosea and Arthur. And Arthur had known all Dutch needed was a little reassurance, but instead he just kept telling Dutch all the things he was doing wrong. 

"All this runnin', it's turned us into people we weren't prepared to be," Arthur continued. "We just have to try harder to be better."

Dutch was silent, but eventually, he nodded. "What if this is who I am?"

"This? Draggin' my body to a doctor despite the danger it put you in? If that's who you are then you're a damn fine man, Dutch. The man I know you to be. The whole Bronte business? I think that darkness is in us all, but the man I'm with now, he knows better than to let that darkness out. Doesn't mean it won't happen. Just means that when it does, you better learn from it or risk that darkness lingerin'."

Dutch looked at him, expression unreadable, but his hand combing through Arthur's hair was gentle. Loving. It felt the same as it had all those years ago when Arthur was young and Dutch loved him a different way. "When'd you get so damn wise, Mister Morgan?"

"You know I ain't big on conversation. Don't mean I ain't got nothin' good to say."

Dutch smiled, leaned forward and kissed him. It never got old. Arthur felt blood surge to his groin. Dutch dragged his teeth across Arthur's bottom lip as he broke the kiss. "I paid the man. No point in sticking around if you feel up to travelling."

"Where we headed?"

"Back to our family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Were backless gowns a thing back then? Doubtful. Did I risk an anachronism just so Dutch could get a glimpse of that booty? You better believe I did.
> 
> Sorry if Dutch was too OOC. He’s obviously got a lot more issues beyond what I’ve written.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for this chapter? There’s some pushy sexual stuff.

It was too much of a risk riding up into Valentine. The town already despised the Van der Linde gang and would recognize Dutch on sight. But knowing that they were bypassing Abigail and Jack gnawed a hole through Arthur's heart. It had been a quick discussion. John had sent his family to Valentine so they were the closest. But Dutch made it clear that Abigail wouldn't trust him to drive her back to John in Annesburg. He had done too much.

Arthur's hands worked into fists until Dutch clasped one. "We aren't abandoning them. I promise."

"What if John is there with them? You told him you'd come back for him days ago. He mighta moved on."

He hoped. God did he hope, because the alternative was that John had died on that tiny bed in that coal dust-covered shack. 

Dutch gave him a worried glance, one hand on the reins. Arthur blamed all the kicked up dust for his increased coughing, but Dutch had only pretended to buy it so Arthur didn't waste his breath. "Theoretically, if I thought you might have a point, going to Valentine would add a day to our trip."

"I've gotten this far without keeling over. One day ain't gonna make a big difference."

"If someone sees us--"

"I can be inconspicuous. I got into Blackwater, didn't I?"

Dutch smirked, but the pain in his eyes remained. "A feat I wouldn't believe if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." He sighed. "Let's make a deal. I'll drive this wagon to Valentine for a quick look, but only if you stop talking about how you're gonna keel over."

Arthur's argument died on his lips. It was foolish to deny the inevitable, but if it eased Dutch's already overclocked brain, he could manage. "Deal."

*

Valentine always managed to be busy no matter the time. It was going on afternoon, so the shops and their respective porches were full up with the town's usual citizens. Arthur grimaced, recognizing every face in the crowd outside the hotel. Arthur assumed he had said hello enough times for them to recognize him too when the newspapers had printed his wanted poster. He felt eyes all over him, but there was no going back now. He headed into the hotel.  
buyers and loiterers, the porches the same. 

"How can I help ya?"

The man behind the counter didn't look up, and Arthur thought this a sign. He could still leave without trouble. But then he thought of Abigail and Jack, and how they would be assuming the worst if John hadn't shown. Abigail had worried enough for two lifetimes about John. 

"Is there--" Arthur coughed, every burst of air coming up like sandpaper. The man was watching him now. "Uh, s-sorry. Is there a woman staying here by the name of Abigail by chance? She's got a boy."

"You feelin' all right?"

"No. Yes. Is she here?"

The man titled his head, eyes plastered to the bags beneath Arthur's eyes, to the bright burst of red in their whites, to the dribble of blood Arthur could feel in the corner on his mouth. "I can't give out any information like that, sir. You understand. Crazy folk out there."

The door creaked open behind Arthur. He felt those eyes back on him, piercing. Someone had recognized him. He scratched the back of his head as if that would purge the feeling. Dutch had parked in a dip below the train tracks. It was too far to run if whoever stood behind him started shooting.

"Sorry sir," the man behind the counter said. "Can I offer you a bath?"

Movement upstairs. Arthur felt himself swaying. A trap? Had they known he'd be coming? He imagined the floor above him swarming with lawmen. He felt a phantom squeeze around his throat.

"If there is a woman like that here, can you just tell her that her family's in town?"

"Uh." The man was looking over his shoulder now. Arthur heard the unmistakable rasp of a gun sliding from its holster.

Arthur pivoted toward the hall that led to the baths, remembering an exit at its end. But then there was the patter of tiny feet coming down the stairs.

"Uncle Arthur!"

Jack. He had a wide grin and his arms outstretched. Arthur shot toward him without thought of the gun at his back, scooping him up in a hug and towing him up the stairs. He giggled at his, oblivious of the trouble Arthur had brought into town, and Arthur squeezed him tighter, grateful that he had kept his innocence for so long.

Abigail was turning down into the stairwell when Arthur got to the top. Her mouth--mid-yell at Jack to never run off like that--fell open. "Arthur?"

"I told you I heard him, Mama!" Jack said.

"Hey, Abigail."

She threw her arms around him, crushing Jack between their chests, and Jack giggled harder. "You...where've you been? I mean, I heard where you been but I thought you--"

"Where's your room?"

The door downstairs was opening again, the floor squeaking under a new set of feet. 

Abigail turned quickly as if hearing Arthur's fear. “Over here."

As soon as she had the door open, Arthur sat Jack down over the threshold. He kept his arms raised, silently begging Arthur to pick him up again. Jack had never been much for affection, nor had he ever been that excited to see him. Abigail must have told Jack that he'd been hanged.

"Arthur, what's goin' on?"

"Is John here?"

"No, I don't know where he is. He said he was gonna go back to Beaver Hollow for you. I thought...I thought maybe they captured him too, just didn't put it in the paper. Is he...?"

"I'm sure he's fine. We're going back that way to get him. We'll bring him here."

"We?" Her voice shook. "Don't tell me that bastard--"

"I saved his life and he saved mine."

"That don't make up for all the--!"

"I know. I know it don't." Arthur sighed a ragged breath, smoothing Jack's hair which he squirmed away from. "I don't know if he's changed. Not really. But Micah's dead. So that's a start."

"He is?"

A step whined behind him, and Arthur nudged Jack until the boy met his eyes and then pointed to the bed. "Get under," he whispered. Jack glanced at Abigail before listening. Abigail started to pull the door shut. "You get in there too," Arthur said, palming Micah's pistol.

A footstep tapped the landing. 

"What...?" Abigail went silent, eyes beyond him. Suddenly she was pushing past him. Arthur spun, gun aimed. But it was Dutch, and Abigail was slapping him across the face.

She had strength. There was no doubt of that as Dutch's head jerked to the side, the ring of skin on skin loud enough to make Arthur jump. Dutch's eyes went wide. He hand crept to the reddening spot on his cheek. Abigail was screaming at him.

The look in Dutch's eyes made Arthur surge forward, shunting himself between the two, trying to hush Abigail with explanations that she didn't care to hear.

"You bastard! Showing your face around me, after all you've done! You're disgusting!"

Arthur felt Dutch's hands seize his waist, trying to shove him out of the way. Arthur dug his heels into the carpet. 

"John stayed behind just so he could make sure you didn't kill Arthur! And look at 'em. He's sick, Dutch, can't you see that? He's been sick since Guarma, but you don't care, do you?"

"Abby," Arthur began, but she kept her eyes on Dutch over his shoulder.

"You've been so far gone in that thick head of yours that the gang has been dyin' while you've just been screamin' at 'em. You stopped carin', about all us, so don't you go pretendin' that you care now."

"I ain't pretendin'." Dutch's words in his ear sent a cold shiver down Arthur's back. That rage. He had heard it all too often in Beaver Hollow. He didn't want it worming back.

"Both of you, cut it out," Arthur snapped. "There's no time for the nonsense."

"Nonsense?" Abigail shot back. "He was gonna let Jack die in Beaver Hollow, Arthur. He was gonna let all us die there."

Dutch's grip went slack. Arthur reached behind him, trying to make sure he could feel Dutch's guns in their holsters and not in his hands.

"Abigail," Dutch croaked. "I wouldn't have...Jack is..."

"Save your breath!" Abigail shouted.

A hand flew around Arthur. Dutch's. Arthur grabbed it before Dutch could do whatever he had intended. "I took better care of that boy than John ever would and you know it, you bitch!"

"Whoa, whoa, easy!" Arthur said, having to scream it to be heard. Abigail was back to her verbal jabbing. She was too damn good at it. Dutch was quickly overpowering Arthur to get to her. "Don't you touch her!"

He was remembering the old woman in Guarma. She had been such fragile thing, and Dutch had killed her like it meant nothing. He had even done is slowly. Slower than was needed. She had suffered. And Arthur had just watched.

Arthur spun and shoved Dutch back a step. Instinctively Dutch shoved Arthur. Arthur tripped over his own feet, trying to avoid colliding with Abigail and crashing to the floor. It knocked the wind out of him. Sent him coughing. Dutch and Abigail stopped fighting at least, but only to look at Arthur in horror.

Dutch opened his mouth but said nothing. Jack was peeking through a crack in the door. Abigail kneeled but Arthur waved her away. 

“I’m okay.”

“Let me get you some water,” Abigail said.

“It’s okay.” Arthur cleared the knot in his throat, watching Dutch in the corner of his eye as he turned and walked down the stairs. It wasn’t okay. Not then. Arthur’s heart was sinking. Arthur started to call after him, but then Abigail was drawing him to his feet. 

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I...I’m just so tired of all this.”

“I know. Me too.”

“You trust him?” She nodded toward the stairs. Below them, the door was croaking open again.

Arthur wiped blood off his mouth and onto the shirt Trelawny had give him, realizing there was already blood along his side. He had irritated his new stitches. “I guess. I mean, yeah...sometimes.”

Abigail gave a said sigh. “He still gonna bring John here?”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

“Take care of yourself, Arthur. Please. For us.”

“I will.”

Arthur waved at Jack before turning toward the stairs, gripping the railing until his knuckles were white. He took a shaky breath and went down after Dutch, wondering if he’d even be waiting for him, wondering if the stagecoach would be rattling in the distance when he got to where it had been parked. Wondering a lot of things that did the ache in his chest no good.

“Everything okay?” the man behind the counter asked.

Arthur had to ignore him. The word ‘yes’ refused to come. 

*

The stagecoach was still there. So was Dutch. He was throwing a fist into its door. Arthur felt cold terror sink against his bones. Even when Dutch had drowned Bronte and killed the woman in Guarma and even killed the woman in Blackwater, Arthur had not feared for his own life. But now he was growing weaker by the day. Dutch had knocked him over without trying. Had he hit Arthur as hard as he’d just hit the coach, Arthur would be down for good.

“Dutch.”

Dutch froze. Turned slowly. His eyes raked over Arthur and the redness drained from his face. “My boy. I’m so sorry.”

Arthur bristled. He sounded so much like he had at Beaver Hollow. He would get aggressive with Arthur or John and then in the same day murmur on about how he loved them. How he was sorry. How he was just scared.

Arthur felt himself backing away. Dutch noticed. 

Dutch leaned into the coach and slid down the side, face in his hands. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

Arthur heard the threat of tears in Dutch’s voice, felt it break him. He dropped beside Dutch, worming himself into his arms. Arthur wasn’t sure what to say, so he just held Dutch, feeling Dutch’s hammering heartbeat against his own. Eventually it slowed.

“This isn’t going to work,” Dutch whispered. “Our gang. This is over.”

“Abigail has a lot of stress on her. When we get John—”

“She won’t come back to us, and John will stay with her.” There was anger back in Dutch’s voice now. “Micah’s gone. Who knows where Bill and Javier ended up? Charles seems like he’s comfy with Rains Fall’s tribe. At this point, everyone else in Van Horn has probably decided this kind of life isn’t worth the risk.”

“We’ll only know if we go up there.”

Dutch nuzzled into Arthur’s neck. Bit down. Arthur jumped. “You’re too good to us, son. To all of us.”

Arthur shut his eyes, sun warming his skin and Dutch’s hands roaming his uninjured side. He wasn’t sure what was going through Dutch’s mind, but as long as he was calm Arthur was too. Dutch bit down harder, eliciting a gasp out of Arthur. Maybe calm wasn’t the word. Dutch was growing hard against Arthur’s leg.

There were kisses trailing to his collar bone and fingers crawling up his shirt. Even the sun couldn’t match the heat curling through Arthur’s stomach in response. The dent from Dutch’s fist was right over his head but his tongue was soft and suddenly filling his mouth. Arthur could still taste blood and imagined Dutch could too, but Dutch only bit Arthur’s lip and growled, drawing more.

Dutch had never been rough with him. It felt like that was going to change.

“In the coach,” Dutch said.

*

The door was too dented to shut all the way, but Dutch didn’t seem to care. He bent Arthur across one of the seats, ripping the button of his pants open and tugging them to his ankles. Arthur’s heart was hammering. Something hard was lodging in his throat. He was bare-assed and Dutch was squeezing his hips hard enough to bruise. 

“I-ah. I’m kinda confused,” Arthur admitted. 

Dutch bent over him, heavy and burning hot, rucking Arthur’s shirt up to his shoulder blades and biting down between them. Arthur bit back a scream. Between Dutch’s weight, Dutch’s grip, and Dutch’s teeth, the pain was starting to overpower pleasure. Blood was dripping from Arthur’s side and onto their bed roll in the floor. 

Dutch squeezed Arthur’s ass and pulled his cheeks apart, his weight vanishing. Arthur took a breath, losing it as Dutch licked up his taint.

“Are you okay?” Arthur wheezed out.

Dutch only replied by squeezing Arthur’s balls. It hurt. Jerking away from the pain only doubled it. Dutch actually laughed. Arthur kicked him in the chest.

The coach shook and Arthur spun in time to see Dutch land on his back. His eyes were narrowed and his mouth was twisted in a grin. It dropped when he glimpsed Arthur’s side.

“Shit. Are you okay?”

“No,” Arthur snapped, tugging his shirt down. His pants were still at his ankles.

“Did I do that? Shit, Arthur. I wasn’t...and I thought...” Dutch got to his knees, hesitating before running a tentative hand down Arthur’s leg. When Arthur didn’t pull away, Dutch took a shirt off the floor and pressed it to Arthur’s wound. Arthur sank back onto the seat, shaking. He wasn’t sure if it was entirely from blood loss.

Dutch’s eyes were wet. He dropped his head into Arthur’s knee as if trying to hide it. Arthur ran a hand down the back of Dutch’s head, trying to soothe him. 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to...”

“I know,” Arthur said.

“I thought—”

“I know.”

“I’d never—“

“It’s okay, Dutch. I shoulda said something.” 

“No, no. I should have known. Should have seen it. I thought your...” Dutch swallowed hard. “Thought your resistance was part of it.”

“That’s a strange thing to assume.”

“Yeah.”

A train roared over them, and instead of speaking Dutch held an arm out, inviting Arthur into the floor with him. Arthur studied the softness in Dutch’s eyes before obliging. Dutch helped him get his pants up, and then pulled the bedroll up to their chests and Arthur into his arms. 

By the time the train got to the station and left again, rolling back across the tracks overhead, Arthur was half asleep. Dutch was so warm, his violent grip now soft, his breath feathering across Arthur’s cheek. 

“I’m pretty sure a bounty hunter followed me into the hotel,” Arthur said, cracking his eyes open and meeting Dutch’s only a few inches away. It was still overwhelming being so close to him, now more than ever, because whenever Arthur got anything good, it was ripped away.

“I saw that guy when I came in. Must have recognized me or that I was with you. He took off. I imagine he’ll alert the law since he’d be outnumbered otherwise. Or he saw you with a kid and thought better of it.”

“Some decent people in this town.”

“Some.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes. “We should go either way.”

“Probably.” Dutch didn’t move though. His throat kept working as though he was testing words. “I let my anger get the best of me in there. Thank you, Arthur, for stepping in. And sorry for pushing you. That’s what hurt your side, wasn’t it?”

Arthur nodded. “I know you didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Well, I still did it, so I’m sorry. For that and for this. I’ll do better. I’ll do right by you.”

“I know.” Arthur wasn’t sure why, but hearing Dutch speak with such sincerity was a relief beyond what he could take in his state. He had been afraid Dutch had dipped too far off the deep end with Bronte, and all those worries came rushing back seeing him interact with Abigail. But, no matter how slowly, Dutch was coming back to his usual self. His loving, protective, honest self. 

“What happened to us?” Dutch said. “We’re outlaws for Christ’s sake. And look at us, cryin’ like a bunch of babies.”

“I love you, Dutch.”

“You know that I love you. Always have, always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I appreciate you all so much for showing me love in the comments. I read them all and love them all, even if I don’t get a chance to reply. <3


	27. Chapter 27

Arthur kept hearing horses behind them, kept standing in the seat to look over the coach, gun drawn. Finally Dutch told him to get in the back and sleep. Arthur tried, but his head was splitting, his breaths were ragged, and he knew nightmares of the dead were lying in wait. He feared he might not wake, and that kept him up until Dutch pulled the wagon into a copse of trees at nightfall. They were just north of Emerald Ranch, overlooking the Heartland Overflow and the deer that gathered there to drink. 

Dutch eased the undamaged coach door open and slipped in beside Arthur, smelling of sweat and smoke. Arthur pretended to sleep. Dutch’s fingertips grazed his jaw, warming him from the inside out. “You haven’t slept at all, have you?”

Arthur opened his eyes, guilty. Dutch frowned. “I tried, but...”

“That’s all right. Sun’s almost gone if you want to wash off out there.”

Arthur sat up, keeping the pain out of his face. What he couldn’t hide was the sore stiffness that gripped his body. He slid out of the coach but had trouble straightening. It felt like his stitches were too tight and every shift of his abdomen risked ripping them all over again.

Dutch gave him a wary glance before looping his arm with Arthur’s and leading him to the edge of the pond.

“‘M fine,” Arthur said.

“I know. I just like holdin’ you.”

“That’s a sweet lie, Dutch.”

“Not a lie.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, maybe just a half one. I do like holdin’ you.” Dutch wrapped his arm around Arthur’s waist, leaving a searing trail of heat where he touched. “Amongst other things.”

Arthur laughed. “Now you’re the one actin’ like a teenager.”

Dutch held him steady while Arthur kicked his boots off, watched Arthur’s hands as he unbuttoned his shirt, watched even more intently as Arthur unbuttoned his pants and thrust them down to his ankles. 

“You ain’t never stared at me so much before,” Arthur said, letting Dutch lower him to the grass until he was sitting close enough to the water to scoot in. It enveloped his feet, still warm from the sun.

It was Dutch’s turn to laugh. “Just because you didn’t see it don’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Arthur felt a flush of heat head for the tips of his ears. The thought of Dutch admiring him from afar, longing as he had longed, lit a fire in his stomach. Seeing Dutch was hard made it burn hotter.

“Sorry,” Dutch said, stepping out of his pants and into the water. He crouched a few feet away as if to hide his straining cock and splashed water across his skin, suddenly looking everywhere but Arthur. 

Arthur couldn’t help but stare. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing Dutch like this. “if you wanted me, why didn’t you say somethin’?"

Dutch paused. “You serious? About me wantin’ to fuck you senseless? Yeah, I don’t think that would have gone over well. We all thought you were...not the way you are.”

“We?”

“Forget it.”

"Who the hell is we?"

"Look, I'm ashamed to admit it, but I wasn't exactly careful about eyein' you when I was drunk. Why do you think I stopped drinkin' in camp?"

Arthur hadn't thought much about it when Dutch didn't join in on their celebrations. He needed a clear mind to plan. But it hadn't always been like that, not when they were stationed near Blackwater. The last time Arthur remembered Dutch getting drunk it had been after a bank heist in New Austin. Everyone was blitzed out of their minds. Dutch had been screaming some song by the campfire when Arthur passed out right outside his lean-to. He remembered Hosea busting Dutch's balls the next day for being so unprofessional in front of everyone. He was the leader. He should act like it.

"I don't remember you eyein' me."

"Of course not. You weren't lookin’. But everyone else was." Dutch stared toward Emerald Ranch, the last beams of day turning the sky over him orange. "Molly started getting upset when I'd take you out somewhere. I didn't really understand why until Hosea slapped me across the back of the head for oglin' you one night. Said I was gonna make people uncomfortable. I was drunk at the time, but that sobered me up fast. I couldn't lose people. Couldn't lose their faith in me, and I would have had they realized why I was starin' you down. It ain’t good sign of a healthy mind to be lusting after other men.”

“So I hear.” Arthur sank deeper into the water, letting it swallow him up to the waist and hide the bruises Dutch had left on his hips in Valentine. There were too many left by Micah to hide. He was tired of looking at his body and seeing that rat. 

“I don’t actually believe that, Arthur. Don’t sound so upset.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, annoyed at himself. He was getting worse at keeping his emotions in check. He didn’t want a wall up around Dutch, but he didn’t want the man to see straight through him either.

“Hosea told me I was barkin’ up the wrong tree with you. Even if I hadn’t been, he made it known that you deserved better than to have your mentor turn on you. So to cut my nonsense out. Once I realized what I was doing and stopped, Molly calmed down.”

“Until you hit on Mary-Beth.”

Dutch cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

“I feel stupid,” Arthur admitted, a simple statement that he hoped conveyed all the thoughts cluttering his mind. He had unknowingly caused tension between Dutch and Molly. Dutch and Hosea. Dutch and everyone who would turn on him for showing interest in men. All the while, Arthur had been pining for the exact attention Dutch was already giving him.

“I feel stupid enough for us both.”

Arthur brushed water through his hair. “You and Hosea never...?”

“When I said you were my first, I meant it. He was a giving man, but all his more sensual affections were reserved for Bessie. And in case it wasn’t obvious, I was too terrified to actually act on any of my...odd urges. He only knew something was up when he came across my sketchbook and it was open to the page where I’d scribbled about a hundred dicks.”

Arthur laughed at that, ignoring the twinge in his side. 

Dutch grinned. “Bless Hosea. He knew now long after we started to run together. He didn’t say a word about it until he confronted me for being a sloppy drunk that night I’d been hungerin’ after you.”

“Do you think he’d be mad? About us?”

Dutch hummed. “I think he’d be relieved that I finally made a move, though I don’t think he’d much appreciate that the move was on you.”

“Technically, I made the first move.”

“Technically, I’m the adult.”

“Yeah, because being 35 means nothing.”

“I mean, I was the adult when you weren’t.”

“Barely.”

“Barely,” Dutch agreed. “But still, I was someone you looked up to. And besides all that, Hosea had a soft spot for you and feared I’d ruin you. Little did he know, I ruined you anyway, and I didn’t need to fuck you to do it.”

The breeze was picking up, warping the smooth surface of the pond and the reflection of the dimming sky. Arthur steeled his expression quickly, but hearing that hurt worse than anything else so far. Dutch thought he was ruined. And of course he was right. Arthur was too sick and weak and thin to do much of anything anymore. Dutch hadn’t even had enough faith in Arthur to find Abigail on his own.

“Why’d you follow me into the hotel? You said you were gonna stay with the stagecoach.”

Dutch finally looked at him, eyebrows scrunched. “I...” His eyes flicked away again, realizing what brought Arthur’s train of thought to the hotel incident. “I was afraid.”

“That I couldn’t fight if someone recognized me?”

“That maybe you would come to your senses and run off too.”

The windchill gripped Arthur harder, or maybe the deep timbre of Dutch’s voice was making him shiver. Would that have been the smart thing to do? Take the advice he’d given the rest of the gang and run away? He wasn’t sure. There was no way to know that the unstable side of Dutch wouldn’t reappear. Maybe getting rid of Micah didn’t make Dutch safe. Maybe trying to pull their family back together was just another death sentence.

Arthur coughed and Dutch shot to his feet, holding one hand to Arthur while his other swept up Arthur’s clothes. “Let’s get you out of the wind.”

*

Dutch wrapped Arthur in the bed roll and disappeared, having decided to wash Arthur’s clothes before it got too dark to see. When he returned, he was still nude, their wet clothes left to dry on the grass. Arthur lifted the bedroll and Dutch slipped in, body warm compared to Arthur’s own. Arthur lifted his head off the floor to rest it on Dutch’s chest. He shut his eyes. It was easy to forget his worries when Dutch’s arms were around him.

“Arthur,” Dutch warned.

He opened his eyes, realizing only when he glanced up to see Dutch’s smirk that he was half-hard and rubbing against the Dutch’s hip. He gave a nervous laugh.

Dutch pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You gotta tell me when you want it.”

“I want it.”

Dutch flipped him on his back. It was almost instantaneous, as were the kisses to the hickeys Dutch had given him earlier. Fingers curled in his hair. Dutch’s hardening length rutted against his. Arthur was already moaning, head thrown back. 

“Tell me if I hurt you,” Dutch said. “Or if you want me to stop. Or anything.”

Arthur nodded, already lightheaded. The friction was so fucking good, enough to get him right on the edge just knowing it was Dutch’s cock against his. Dutch bit down on his nipple, drawing a hiss out of Arthur’s raw throat. 

Dutch’s head shot up. “Okay?”

“I’m more than okay, Dutch.”

Dutch gave a low, growling laugh. It made Arthur buck against him. Arthur wormed his legs out from under Dutch, spreading them wide and planting his feet on either side of Dutch’s hips. He used the leverage to buck harder.

“If you keep that up...” Dutch began.

“I want your cum on me.”

“Jesus.” Dutch bit down on Arthur’s neck, gasping through his clenched teeth. As soon as he pulled back Arthur trapped his lips against his own. Dutch scooted down, pressing his cock against Arthur’s hole. 

“No, no, no,” Arthur muttered, thrusting against Dutch’s stomach. 

“What’s wrong?”

Absolutely nothing except that they didn’t have lube. “I’m so close. I just—“

The smirk was back on Dutch’s face. “Shall we do it like the first time then?”

“Please.”

Dutch evened his hips up with Arthur’s, holding himself up with one hand while the other grasped their cocks together. Arthur nearly screamed in relief. 

“Dutch!”

“Yes, baby?”

“Oh God. I love you, I love you, Dutch. I love you.” Arthur couldn’t stop muttering, even as Dutch’s lips crashed over his. “You’re all I’ve ever wanted. You—fuck!”

He came hard, arching off the floor and shooting ropes across his stomach. Dutch held his gaze, eyes glazing, lines carving between his brows. His breath stalled, and then it was punched out with a moan that drove a shiver up Arthur’s spine. Dutch’s cum drenched his chest, covered his cock. Dutch jacked them until Arthur was writhing from overstimulation.

Finally, he let go, losing his strength and dropping on top of Arthur. “We’re gonna have to bathe again.”

Arthur laughed. “Worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'alls comments keep me going :)


	28. Chapter 28

By noon, they were just outside Van Horn. The wind was driving a thunderstorm across the water and toward the town, bringing with it a sense of dread Arthur couldn’t quell so long as he was thinking about the women of the gang he’d sent here. As safe as Van Horn was from law enforcement, the citizens weren’t exactly picturesque examples of morality. Arthur’d been mugged and punched and thrown in the water on the few occasions he’d been through. The last time had been with Dutch. It had been the first and only time they’d had sex. The dread was quickly tamped out by a warmth shooting through his pelvis.

Dutch jumped off the front of the stagecoach and moved up behind Arthur, winding his arms around his stomach, careful to avoid his injury. His lips brushed Arthur’s ear. “Reminiscing?”

“Maybe.”

He felt more than heard Dutch’s laugh. “Me too.”

Arthur had slept like a baby last night, sated and warm, both results of Dutch’s body on his. It had been deep and dreamless, and when he woke it was to Dutch’s face buried in his neck, breaths soft and hand entwined with his. There was something to be said about Dutch sleeping so easily. Arthur had hardly seen him shut his eyes in the past several weeks, and even as Arthur stirred Dutch didn’t wake. Arthur slid outside and dressed, hitching the horses to the coach and spurring them toward Van Horn. Dutch had climbed to the front about an hour later, apologizing for sleeping in and pulling Arthur into a kiss that nearly made him drive the horses into a creek. 

“Let’s get down there,” Dutch said, slapping Arthur on the butt before releasing him. 

*

The town was busiest in the ungodly hours of the morning, allowing Arthur and Dutch to stride through the main avenue with ease, eyes peeled for familiar faces or familiar wagons. Arthur was overly aware of Dutch putting distance between them, each of Dutch’s steps pulling him behind inch by inch. Arthur almost slowed along with him out of habit. But he knew what Dutch was thinking. In all the towns in all the world, this one might appreciate obvious male ‘closeness’ the least. It seemed to stick Arthur in the heart, a natural feeling when someone was ashamed of being with you. Mary had done the same thing with him when it came to her father, trying to hide the nature of her and Arthur’s relationship until he caught them in his hayloft. He supposed, with some sadness, that that was just how all his relationships were meant to be. Secret. If the gang found out, he figured Dutch would break it off with him too, as Mary had.

They went down the main avenue three times, seeing no one.

Arthur had stopped in the middle of the street and waited for Dutch to catch up. “Seein’ you in the papers probably got them movin’ to somewhere quieter. Maybe in the swamps again.”

“Yeah,” Dutch said vacantly. 

Arthur started to reach for Dutch’s hand. Stopped himself. “I’m starvin’, you?”

Dutch looked up, shame crossing his expression, as though just realizing that Arthur hadn’t eaten since the boar near Strawberry. The doctor had told him eating well was an important part of extending the time he had. Dutch seemed to remember this the same time Arthur did, grimacing. “Shit. Of course.”

*

The bar wasn’t exactly the cleanest place in the world, but the food was hot and that was all that mattered. They took a table in the corner of the room, trying to avoid the day-drinkers that were already slurring and stumbling. Dutch had drawn into himself, eating slow and saying nothing. The tension was starting to claw at Arthur. 

“They appreciate what you’ve done,” he said.

Dutch looked up. “Huh?”

“The gang. Even if they...if they don’t come back, nothin’ you did for ‘em was in vain.”

“Oh.” Dutch took another bite of his meal, eyes unfocused. 

“It don’t mean you failed. Just means things have changed. The world’s changed. How much longer could it have gone on anyway?”

Dutch scowled. The grip on his spoon tightened. A prickle of sweat chased the ridges of Arthur’s spine. “I don’t much care to think about it, Arthur.”

“Come on,” Arthur continued, risking a nudge to Dutch’s knee with his. “Ain’t no real gangs left. Ain’t nowhere for us to go anymore. That ain’t your fault, Dutch.”

“Stop talking.”

Arthur’s eyes jumped to Dutch’s. The challenge was clear, but for once Arthur didn’t feel like walking on eggshells. For once, it seemed like Dutch had nothing to fall back on in terms of threats. What was the worst he could do? Kill him? 

“No.”

Dutch sat his spoon down, finally focused on Arthur. “No?”

“I think maybe it’s time you listen to someone else for once. Like, I dunno, me?”

“Right now, I think maybe I’d like to rip you fucking head off.”

Arthur scoffed, unable to stop himself but fully able to see the vein popping out on Dutch’s forehead. It reminded him so much of when Arthur brought John back from Sisika. ‘I had a goddamn PLAN!’ Dutch had screamed it in his face, shadows under his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks, turning him into something unnatural. Something addled with insanity.

“Why don’t you just let someone else do it? You can leave me pinned in that oilfield again.”

Dutch shot to his feet, sending the table groaning a few inches toward Arthur and jostling their plates. “I told you I didn’t leave you!”

“You saw me Dutch! Heard me callin’ for you! And you walked away!”

Dutch pushed their cutlery off the table and shattering across the floor. He leaned over the table and grabbed Arthur’s shirt. “Listen here—”

“You listen. And if you won’t listen to me, listen to yourself. You can’t fight change. That’s what you said. Just because you don’t wanna believe the world ain’t changing don’t mean it ain’t true. I’m just sayin’ we need a plan on what to do. Even if John chooses us over his real family, what’re the odds that we’ll be able to get where we’d been? The government has eyes everywhere these days. There’s no more scores to be had. Not without deadly consequence.”

Dutch reared his fist back.

“Hit me, you fucker,” Arthur said. “Do us both a favor and prove that, just like everyone else, I deserve better than you.”

Some life came back to Dutch’s eyes. The crazed look was slowly being overtaken by shock. Sorrow. Dutch dropped his fist. Released Arthur’s shirt. The other patrons had stopped their chatter and drinking to stare.

"You gotta trust me Dutch. I ain't that kid you scooped up off the side of the road. You may have raised me to be your gunslinger, but Hosea raised me to be my own self. You used to listen to him. Listen to me. All I'm saying is that our only chance at thriving in the god forsaken world is to be open minded about what might come."

"You're trying to protect John," Dutch whispered, as if drained of all energy. "You think he'll refuse to join us."

"At this point..." Arthur hesitated. "If I still had Issac at this point, if I was the one takin' care of him, I woulda been long gone."

Dutch dropped into his chair, eyes glazed and limbs slack. It seemed like Arthur didn't need to draw his gun to kill Dutch. 

*

Dutch got them two beers to go, a step behind Arthur as they climbed the hill back to their stagecoach. They had taken another stroll through the town, asked a few of the friendlier faces about seeing a caravan come through, but Van Horn was a place to go hide. Even if someone had seen the gang, they probably wouldn't tell two strangers about it.

"Something is wrong with me." Dutch said.

Arthur refrained from glancing over his shoulder, assuming Dutch would stop talking once he felt under pressure.

"I don't think I used to...but then I wasn't in this position...still, all that stress back in the day...but it was fun then. Now, now it's torture." 

Arthur climbed onto the driver's seat, the horses already tugging at their harnesses. Dutch froze at the edge of the seat, staring at his beer. He cleared his throat and looked at Arthur until Arthur looked back. 

"I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't want to hurt you. I just..."

"I understand." 

And he did. Arthur had punched the lights out of the sick, poor, and dying, not because he had to, but because at the time it was a release. It felt like a perk of the job. Now Arthur saw how sick in the head he had been. His diagnoses changed things. He wasn't a good man, but he was trying. 

"I'm above that kind of violence," Dutch told himself. 

"No one's above it. Accepting that makes it less of a big deal when you have those urges. Actin' on em or not is what draws the line between good and bad."

Dutch looked offended, but quickly wiped his expression clean. "Mind if I ride up here with you?"

"Course not, darlin'."

Dutch gave him a teasing grin. He settled on the seat and shut his eyes to the wind as they headed north. 

Arthur kept his mouth shut, trying to ease the sandpaper sensation in his throat. The beer was making it burn so painfully that it began to feel good. Mostly, he kept quite so he could decide how he could trust Dutch and fear him at the same time. How he could want to let Dutch treat him like a whore while dreading the vulnerability that came with nudity. How he could want John to rescue him from the situation while never wanting to leave Dutch’s side again. 

Dutch tossed his empty bottle over the side of the coach and laid his head in Arthur’s lap. A few minutes later, the feel of Dutch’s warm mouth on the crotch of his pants made him jump. Dutch laughed, fingers creeping up Arthur’s inner thigh and resting on his balls.

“You got mood swings galore, Dutch.”

“You make me feel a lot of things, Arthur.”

“Ah-“ Arthur gasped, feeling Dutch sink his teeth lightly into Arthur’s cock through his pants. “D-don’t blame me. Now get up. Someone’s gonna see you.”

“You ain’t prude, boy. Stop acting like we don’t sleep and fuck in the dirt.”

“We don’t.” Not anymore, anyway. Not after their gang grew and their income flourished and tents and cots took place of the stars and the ground. Dutch’s rough fingers slid up Arthur’s stomach and into his pants, brushing the head of Arthur’s hardening prick. “Someone’s gonna be ridin’ by any second.”

“Then they’re going to see your fat cock in my mouth.”

“Jesus.” 

Dutch pulled Arthur free of his pants, tugging them down until his balls sprang free and Arthur was rutting his hips up and sinking his shoulders into the seat. The horses veered off the road and Arthur steered them back quickly. Dutch sucked one of his balls into his mouth. His eyes rolled into the back of his head.

“Eyes on the road, son.”

“Shut up,” Arthur bit, and Dutch laughed again, rubbing his thumb over Arthur’s tip and dragging the pre-cum down his shaft. Dutch nipped at his sack. Squeezed it. Finally, Dutch licked up Arthur’s cock with the flat of his tongue. 

Arthur pulled to the side of the road. Dutch lifted his head. “Keep driving.”

“But—“

“We can’t keep John waiting.” Dutch took Arthur in his mouth one agonizing centimeter at a time until Arthur felt the back of Dutch’s throat closing around him. It knocked the breath out of Arthur. 

“You feel s’good,” Arthur muttered, struggling to keep his eyes open, one hand flexing in the curls and the nape of Dutch’s neck. Dutch hummed in response, the vibration of it coursing down Arthur’s length. Arthur tipped his hips, trying to get more friction. Dutch held him down.

Then suddenly Dutch’s lips were moving up and down him, head bobbing, getting Arthur into his throat before pulling up and sucking him down again. Arthur bit his lip, trying to keep quiet, trying to keep his eyes open and ahead. Dutch was so warm. His hair so soft. Arthur bent forward, breathing in the smell that was all Dutch. His musk had been by Arthur’s side through tough nights and tougher days. Breathing it now, with Dutch’s mouth around him, made sparks ignite under his skin.

“Dutch, I’m gonna—“

Dutch pulled away and squeezed the base of Arthur’s cock. The loss of warmth made Arthur growl. “What the fuck?”

Dutch wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand, suppressing a grin but not the mischievous glint in his eyes. “Bad boys need to be punished.”

“What?”

Dutch released him, smacking Arthur’s hand away when he’d instinctively reached to stroke himself. “You heard me. Maybe you’ll think better of back talking me.”

“Are you serious?” Arthur was painfully hard and even more painfully close. Every throb of his heartbeat and every bump in the road nearly pushed him into release, untouched. 

“If you’re good, I’ll make it up to you. Now put that thing away.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Now now, Arthur. Watch that mouth or I’ll have to take the reins and put it to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started sort of using a Twitter handle I've had for a while to look at cowboys. I have some of my original writing linked in my bio @nutmegalodon if anyone's interested.


	29. Chapter 29

The closer they got to Annesburg the twitcher Dutch became. Night and a brisk wind had met them at the town’s border, coal dust burning in Arthur’s lungs. Dutch had gone quiet. He held a lantern out in front of him so Arthur could see the road, but his face was lost in shadow. Arthur let Dutch’s anxiety infect him. While they had been screwing around in the bath, John had been dying from a gutshot. Then they just up and left him. John had probably bled out days ago. Arthur unconsciously gripped his stomach, mouth watering and throat constricting. If he threw up, Dutch would make him stay behind while he went searching for John alone. Knowing how much more he’d have to wait, Arthur pursed his lips and swallowed the little bit of food as it rushed up. It left him feeling sicker. 

“Pull into that tree line.”

Dutch’s voice, sudden and loud against the gentle chirp of crickets, made Arthur jump. He steered the horses where Dutch pointed, nearly driving them into a tree. When the stagecoach finally stopped, Dutch shut off his lantern and let darkness devour them. The piss-yellow lights of Annesburg peered at them from between the trees.

Dutch took a breath. Then the coach croaked and wobbled as Dutch jumped off. Arthur followed, grasping for trees and following the light. He was still far too unsteady for his liking. 

Dutch was waiting for him on the road. Arthur stopped beside him, squinting, trying to glimpse Dutch’s expression. Dutch reached out and squeezed Arthur’s fingers. “You okay?” he whispered.

Not in the least. Everything in Arthur’s gut was telling him to prepare for another unmarked cross in the town’s graveyard, soil freshly turned and muddy from the rains, John’s body already riddled with holes of worms and maggots. Arthur gagged, shut his eyes, and tried to breathe until the feeling passed.

“Let’s—” Arthur cleared his throat. “Let’s go.”

Dutch nodded and released his hand.

The town was much busier than Van Horn ever was, no matter the time, thanks to the shift work of the mines. Long shadows of sihouettes stretched across the street, the chatter louder but much less oppressive than the violent talk that enveloped Van Horn. Arthur relaxed, just slightly, knowing that he too was probably just another shadow to everyone else. A ghost in a town of other ghosts. Dutch kept at his side this time, offering another brief squeeze of his hand before they turned to the apartment where they’d last seen John. 

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, but Arthur’s horse wasn’t where he had left it. It was possible they could have missed John on his way to Valentine, but it seemed likelier that someone had stolen it or the people who had doctored John had sold it upon John’s passing. Either way, Arthur staggered to a stop just before the stairs.

Dutch didn’t hesitate. He took the lead, patting Arthur on the shoulder before hurrying up the steps. The light was on at the house, voices coming through the cracks and figures moving behind the curtains. Dutch knocked. Light spilled onto the ground as the door opened.

After all the internal fuss, Arthur realized he was waiting for Dutch’s reaction before following. He feared seeing an empty, blood-stained bed would follow him into his nightmares for years to come.

“Oh, it’s you. Mr...I don’t think I ever got your name.”

“I never got yours either, Miss,” Dutch said. “I am sincerely sorry for my poor punctuality. I promised I’d be back for my boy John almost a week ago. Is he...?”

“Please, come on in,” the woman said, and Arthur’s stomach dropped. Dutch turned and waved him up, and Arthur didn’t miss the dread on his face, even at a distance.

The house was empty except for the woman who had helped John, the bed in the corner covered with fresh sheets. It still smelled like blood and sickness. Arthur glanced around, checking every corner, as though John would have been hiding in order to jump out and surprise them.

There was a very small table pushed against the wall near the oven, and the woman motioned them to sit. Arthur could only comply. He dropped into one of the two chairs like holding himself up had been too much. 

“They should be back soon,” the woman said. 

Arthur’s heart leapt into his throat. Very carefully, Dutch asked, “they?”

“John and Andrew, my husband. The man who you met here before.”

“John’s okay?” Dutch said.

“He’s still recoverin’, of course, and I reckon he will be for a while, but he seems to be mostly outta the woods. Today’s really the first day he felt like walkin’ more than a few steps. Wanted to send a letter. Andy went with him to the post office to make sure he didn’t have any problems.”

Arthur dropped his head into his hands, overwhelmed with relief. His breath trembled as he released it. Damn Marston for making him worry. A heavy hand landed on Arthur’s shoulder, and he looked up to find Dutch mirroring the same relief he felt. The woman gave him a comforting smile that worked almost stiffly against her frown lines. Arthur shook with his next breath, hating the way it sounded. He was a grown man and John had pretty much been a thorn under his skin since they’d known each other, but knowing, after all that had gone wrong, that John had survived a gunshot that usually promised death made Arthur want to laugh and weep at the same time.

*

Arthur heard John’s distinct muttering even before he heard their footsteps reach the door. Arthur and Dutch had settled in front of the oven, trying to avoid the nightly chill as it eked through the cracks in the walls, when the door finally opened. Arthur shot to his feet and stumbled as his vision went dark. Dutch pulled him back into the chair and took his place by the door to welcome John.

Andrew went still at the threshold, eyes widening and jumping to his wife. Seeing her relaxed made him look at the strangers again, seeming to recognize who they were this time. He gave a nod and stepped backward. “You go first. Ain’t much room.”

“What do you mean?” John was asking as he peeked through the doorway. He looked pale and exhausted. HIs already skinny frame seemed even smaller, like he would break against a strong gust of wind. His eyes landed on Dutch and then jumped to Arthur just behind him. A smile lit his face, his mouth moving but nothing coming out until he found the right words. “You...” He regained his composure. “You boys came back for me after all. I was beginnin’ to think you’d dropped off the face of the planet.” 

His eyes stayed on Arthur as he swallowed hard enough to hear. Judging from his expression, Arthur assumed John had thought him dead, be it by a rope or by Dutch’s hand, he wasn’t sure. 

Arthur reached out and clasped John’s hand. “Good to see you up and runnin’. You always was a whiny little kid. Thought that gunshot would keep you on your ass for a month. Figured we’d leave you here for a few extra days so these fine people could wait on you hand and foot instead of us.”

John scoffed. “You were the one who hardly got outta your cot for two weeks after getting shot in the SHOULDER of all places. I was nearly gutted.”

Arthur saw Dutch grin out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I see neither of you have grown out of needlessly bickering with each other.”

The woman was smiling again. It was beginning to look like it actually belonged on her. “My sons acted just the same.”

Ignoring the implications of her using past tense, John opened his mouth again, eyes alight. Then those eyes landed on Arthur’s neck. The smirk left his face. Arthur froze under the cooling stare. It was too late to cover the hickeys and bite marks. Trying now would make them more obvious.

“You been to a whorehouse while I been here?”

“And on that note,” Dutch blurted, “we should be heading on. Your wife and kid are dyin’ to see you John.”

That got John’s attention, his eyes peeling off Arthur light up on Dutch. “You’ve talked to them?”

“Saw them yesterday in fact.”

Something dark wormed into Arthur’s mind and he felt himself deflate. They would drop John off in Valentine and he and Dutch would...go somewhere. Do something. But Arthur would likely never see John again. Not as long as Abigail was infuriated with Dutch. His mouth went dry and he coughed a few times into his arm, earning a sickened glance from Dutch.

“That woman’s gonna kill me. I sent her a letter but it ain’t gonna get there for a few days. I told her I’d meet her in Valentine forever ago.” John went still, eyes widening toward the floor. He had just admitted to Dutch that he had been planning to run away.

“Well let’s get on the road, then,” Dutch said, keeping the lightness in his voice. But the mood had already shifted. “Arthur, take him to the coach, would you? I need to pick up something at the store real quick.”

*

 

Arthur and John walked in silence until the town and its people were at their backs. He had an odd limp, and Arthur assumed it was from trying to keep from irritating his stitches, just as he was doing. 

“What’s goin’ on?” John finally whispered. “I saw you two were set to be hanged.”

“We got away.”

“Got away from a lynchin’? How the hell did you do that?”

“Well, I guess Micah sorta helped me out by stabbing me between the ribs.”

“What?” John stopped in his tracks, but Arthur kept walking, forcing him to follow along. “That mother fu—”

“Dutch shot him.”

John fell silent, eyes narrowed. “Did he just say that or did you see him do it?”

“I saw him. The gunshot got the whole town of Blackwater after us, but Trelawny magicked us outta there, like he always does.”

“Christ.” John took a breath. “Well, I’m glad that you’re...you know. Alive and all that.”

“Me too.”

They stopped by the stagecoach, Arthur following the sounds of restless horses to get there in the darkness. He could feel John beside him, but couldn’t see him. Could feel the tension of the next question before it came out of his mouth.

“Who you been screwin’ around with, Morgan? I thought you’d sworn off the fairer sex since Mary all up and left ya.”

“Nobody.”

“Nobody my ass. Looks like a dog decided to use you as a chew toy. And considering you were under arrest...” John trailed off. “Some asshole lawman didn’t...didn’t...use you, did they?”

“No! ‘Course not.” At least, not that he was conscious enough to remember. The thought made him sick to his stomach all over again.

“So...what now?” John wrenched the dented coach door open, trying to see inside. Arthur fumbled for the lantern Dutch had left on the front of the coach and lit it, the flame sputtering before catching and setting John aglow. 

“We’re takin’ you to Valentine.”

“Shouldn’t we just head back to camp? Abigail and Jack are safe. They can wait. But—”

“All the decent folk are gone, hopefully to find a better life than this one.”

John ran a hand through his hair. For once, it looked clean. Seemed the couple had cared for him better than he ever cared for himself. “So what’s going to...I mean...what are we...?”

Arthur didn’t know, and John seemed to realize this before he could get a clear thought out, so he fell silent. 

“You know where my horse is?” Arthur asked.

“Your horse? No.” 

He could feel John’s eyes again and looked to find them on his neck. Arthur snapped his collar up this time.

“Sorry about that boys!” Dutch called, his silhouette appearing between two of the farther trees. He stepped into the lamplight a few moments later, something bugling in his pants pocket. “John, son, you look pale. We got a bed roll set up in there if you need to lay down.”

John nodded, eyes unfocused. “Yeah, I am feelin’ kinda tired. Haven’t moved around much lately.”

Dutch nodded. “Before you do, I feel like I should explain some things.”

“Arthur filled me in some. You sure you don’t mind takin’ me to Valentine?”

“Of course not, son.”

“And then? What are we gonna do?”

Dutch frowned, eyes dropping to the ground before returning to John. “I guess we’ll see when we get there. I do have a detour planned if you don’t mind. Just a small one.”

Dutch looked at Arthur when John only nodded, lost in some thought Arthur wished he’d get out of. “Where?” Arthur asked, trying not to cough as the cold wind flooded his sinuses.

“I’d like to get all the money you’ve earned the camp, Arthur. Let’s just hope the Murfrees haven’t taken the cave back.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are the best audience ever! Thank you for all the encouragement, as always.

When Dutch pulled the stagecoach to a stop just outside Beaver Hollow, only silence greeted them. Arthur held his breath, sure he’d be able to catch a chord of Javier’s guitar, but all it did was send him into a a fit of coughs that made Dutch freeze as he climbed off the coach.

Arthur waved a hand, doubling over as his lungs squeezed. The movement tugged at his stitches, made him groan between gasps that led to sharper coughs. Dutch rushed around the horses, catching Arthur before he toppled out of the seat, hands gripping his knees.

“Easy, son. Take a breath.”

As if he weren’t trying. He tugged at Dutch’s shirtsleeve, his other hand clawing at his chest. The coach seemed to tilt, his body shifting with it. Dutch threaded his arms under Arthur’s legs as John limped into sight, eyes wide and glinting in the lamplight. Dutch spun Arthur in the seat, forcing him to lie down before he fell down, turning him on his side across the hard wood. 

“Arthur?” John croaked. 

Arthur gasped, feeling blood and phlegm shirk back into his lungs. John was climbing up for a closer look and Arthur, too weak to push him away, simply put a hand to John’s chest. Dutch started patting Arthur’s back, the strikes getting more violent as Arthur continued to cough, spit, and gag. 

“Calm down,” Dutch said, straddling Arthur’s side, sounding anything but calm himself. “It’ll pass.”

John took Arthur’s hand without thinking, prying it out of his shirt collar and squeezing tight. Arthur opened his mouth, lips slick with blood, but air didn’t come. His heartbeat jumped out of rhythm.

“Arthur!” Dutch shouted, grip gentle as he titled Arthur’s chin down and to the side, blood coming back on his hand. Dutch slapped his back again, hard enough to sting, and finally, with his next barking cough, something dislodged. 

Arthur felt John’s bones grind in his newly strengthened grip as he jerked forward, mouth as wide as he could get it, gasping in a trembling, but satisfying breath. He was able to gulp down another. Then another, Dutch’s hands gone soft and encouragingly rubbing circles where he’d hit him. Arthur remembered sounding this ragged when he’d nearly drowned. How much longer could Dutch keep him breathing when the threat had gone from water to blood?

Arthur’s breathing began steady. Dutch dropped his forehead to Arthur’s, trying to calm his own panting. John released Arthur’s hand as if just realizing he had it. Arthur felt John’s eyes boring into him, into Dutch above him. They had always been close, but Dutch had never rested his entire body on Arthur’s in relief at his safety. As far as John knew, anyway.

“You’re still sick?” John asked. It snapped Dutch out of his reverie, and he eased himself off Arthur.

“Unfortunately,” Arthur started to say, but even that sent him coughing again.

Dutch immediately hushed him. “Save your breath, Arthur.”

“He needs help, Dutch.”

Dutch met John’s eyes, distraught against determined, and Dutch nodded. “This place ain’t good for him.”

John’s eyes jumped across the trees. “Beaver Hollow ain’t been good for any of us.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur broke in, but his voice was just a rasp of its former self. It felt like he had been lost in that poisoned cave system again. He cleared his burning throat and swallowed what came loose. Clearer, he said, “the sooner we get the money the sooner we can go.”

John looked at Dutch again, waiting for him to talk sense into Arthur. When he didn’t, John said, “I’m sure the Lovette’s could give you somethin’. They kept me from dyin’ so I’m sure they can fix your cold before it gets worse.”

Arthur groaned as he sat up, ignoring Dutch’s hands trying to hold him down. Sure, he probably needed rest, but he had no cold and, therefore, no time. “John, get back in the coach and lay down. Shouldn’t be movin’ around so much.”

“Both of you go lay down,” Dutch said, patting his gun belt, checking for his guns and ammo. He hopped to the ground, holding an arm out for Arthur to support himself with. “I’ll get he cash and be back in a few minutes.”

Arthur let Dutch take most of his weight as he slid off the front seat, the closest horse lurching forward as Arthur swayed in its direction. Dutch pulled him straight before the horse could kick him in the head.

“Take another breath,” Dutch said, low. “A deep one. For me.”

So Arthur did, shutting his eyes and taking a slow breath that stretched his lungs to their limits. He coughed a little on release, but Dutch still looked more relaxed to know Arthur could still function. 

Dutch dragged him to the dented door and hefted Arthur inside. John opened the other, the lamplight twisting his expression. Even in the flame’s warm glow, John looked pale. Arthur kept as close to his own side as he could, allowing John to lay down on the other.

“Dutch, wait,” Arthur said, feeling Dutch begin to pull away.

Dutch spun to meet his eyes, his own asking a question that Arthur couldn’t answer. ‘What’s wrong?’ But Arthur couldn’t say that he feared Micah would be waiting for Dutch at camp. He’s dead, Arthur told himself over and over instead of answering Dutch’s silent question. But telling himself that didn’t make him believe it. Micah had done the seemingly impossible and gotten into their strong leader’s head. Coming back from the dead seemed meager compared to that.

“I’ll be right back,” Dutch said. “Shut your eyes, son, just for a minute, and you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

If only that were true. Arthur couldn’t shut his eyes, watching instead the dying flicker of the lantern as Dutch rounded the ridge that led to camp. John shifted, groaning through clenched teeth, and shifted some more. 

“You okay, Marston?” Arthur’s voice sounded far away, like maybe sleep would take him whether his eyes were open or not.

“These bumps in the road,” John croaked. “They ain’t kind to injuries.”

Arthur swallowed a cough, taking some comfort in John’s body heat. The part of his brain that demanded health over pride got him rolling closer to John, their shoulders brushing. That small amount of heat radiated into Arthur’s bones. 

“He’s different.”

“Who?” Arthur titled his head to study John’s profile.

“Dutch, obviously. He’s...I don’t know. It’s almost like he cares or something. Like this past month never happened.”

“Yeah. Does seem like that.”

“So which is the real Dutch? The one we had as kids and the one he is now, or the one that wanted me to hang and you to shut up and take orders like a dog?”

Arthur shut his eyes, finding them sore. “Both, I guess.”

John didn’t reply. His leg slid toward Arthur’s until they were barely touching. It seemed they were both freezing and too ashamed to admit it. It wouldn’t have been the first time they had huddled for warmth, but it never got any less embarrassing. And if Dutch came back and misconstrued what they were doing...

So they suffered in silence.

A gunshot cracked like lighting. Arthur sat up so fast he heard his skin rip. But the pain was buried beneath panic. John jumped. Arthur grabbed for Micah’s gun, heart galloping, legs wobbling as he squirmed out of the coach. 

“I’m comin’ with you,” John said, his silhouette struggling for the other door.

“Not like that you ain’t.”

“I’m comin’ with you,” John said again, sharper.

“Then hurry.”

The camp was empty. Arthur’s lean-to was gone and Dutch’s tent was just a heap on the ground. The fire pit had been kicked over and the logs rolled away. There was no Javier and no Bill and, as far as he could tell, no Dutch either.

Without a lantern it took them too long to find the cave entrance, hands out against the darkness and Dutch’s belongings a waypoint at their backs. John hand a hold of Arthur’s belt, keeping just behind him, jerking when three more gunshots rang out. Arthur bit his cheek, needing to call out and hear that Dutch was safe but knowing stealth gave them an upper hand.

Once they were in the cave proper, torches illuminated small stretches of the pathway down, and Arthur moved slow, John aiming with one hand and the other still on his belt. It smell was rank with decay, flashes of body parts and crude cages filling Arthur’s memory. Those fucking Murfrees.

John was swaying, twisting Arthur’s belt, John’s soft whine hitting his ear. Before he could fall, Arthur turned and wrapped John’s arm over his shoulders. “Gotta keep movin’ now,” Arthur whispered.

"Feel like my head's swimmin'."

A gunshot sparked to their right, the noise cracking across the cave walls. Arthur aimed in that direction, finally hearing Dutch’s voice. It was too distant to understand. But it was Dutch alright, alive. Arthur felt John’s steps stagger and almost dropped him.

“John, you gotta help me out here, I’m—“ Arthur froze as a cold barrel pressed into the back of his head.

“He brought friends!”

The voice made Arthur flinch. He risked a glance at John, his weight beginning to pull them both toward the ground. He could see the Murfree’s shoulder, bare and bloody, and another gun barrel disappearing in Marston’s hair. John finally went slack, eyes fluttering shut, legs folding in half. Arthur barely kept them standing.

“One of em ain’t gonna be a problem looks like.” The Murfree’s laugh sounded like nails dragging down stone. It made Arthur bite his cheek harder. There was still a gunfight going on farther down the cave. “Walk,” the Murfree snapped, pushing Arthur forward.

One half-starved hick. Arthur figured he could pivot fast enough to knock the guy’s feet out from under him and stomp the gun out of his hand. The problem was John. Arthur would have to drop him. There were too many hard, jagged edges just waiting for a skull to crack. Arthur couldn’t risk it, so he let the Murfree take his gun and push them toward the gunshots.

Another exchange of gunfire. It was drawing closer. Dutch grunted as if struck. Arthur tipped toward the floor, his own body growing too heavy, let alone John’s. 

“Just drop the bastard,” the Murfree snapped. Arthur felt spittle hit the back of his neck.

“Okay,” Arthur said, having to repeat it when it was almost inaudible to his own ears. “Okay, I’m gonna set him down.” Arthur bent slowly, grimacing against the pain, letting John’s weight do most of the work for him. Finally, John as flat on his back and the Murfree took the gun off him. Now there were two on Arthur, one on his head and the other against his spine. He could hear it now—the heinous chatter of Murfrees taunting Dutch. It sounded like there were a dozen of them, as was usually the case with the Brood, like there was an indefinite amount of them, always breeding with each other under the mountain to spill forth like a plague when called. 

The Murfree at his back swung his leg to kick John’s gun away. That’s when John shot up, grabbed the Murfree at the knee, and yank him off his feet. Arthur spun, slamming his heel into the hick’s gut while John grabbed his gun, shoving it in the Murfree’s mouth and pulling the trigger.

The sound ricocheted around the cave, making Arthur’s ears ring and his balance falter. John was holding his stomach, Arthur noticing a new ring of blood forming on his shirt as he lifted him to his feet. 

“You crazy bastard,” Arthur said.

John gasped a shallow breath and even that seemed to pain him. “Sounds like there’s an army of ‘em down there. We can’t...can’t fight ‘em like this. We have to go.”

“Can you get back to the coach?”

John met his eyes, his face paling in the firelight. “You can’t do this alone.”

“I’m not leaving Dutch.”

“Arthur, he—why? After all the things he put us through...” John dropped his head again, groaning instead of going on. Arthur could feel one of them—maybe both—shaking. 

“Get to the coach and lie low. I’ll get Dutch.”

“I’m...I’m not...leaving you. Not alone with him. He’ll...run off when he gets an opening, whether you can follow or not.”

Arthur pushed John straighter, leaning over to take one of the Murfree’s revolvers so he could dual wield again. He felt a hot rush of blood trail into the waistband of his pants as he did.

“John, if I get you killed I’ll never forgive myself.”

“And...if you die while I’m...layin’ low in some shitty, gross-smellin’ coach...I’ll never forgive you.” John got his bearings, dropping his grip on Arthur’s shoulders when he felt strong enough to go on. He started toward the dwindling racket of gunfire and Arthur followed.

Two winding turns later, a Murfree stopped in his tracks as he ran into John and Arthur, John shooting him dead as he opened his mouth to warn the others. A fine red spray burst out the back of his head, painting the cave wall. John had hit him right in the eye, and then stumbled on.

“You’re a better shot when you ain’t tryin’,” Arthur said, trying to fill the void that Dutch’s last shout had left.

“Shut up, Morgan.”

“Just sayin’”

Two more reports from John’s gun stopped the conversation, the shots flashing Arthur momentarily blind. They stumbled on, Arthur taking the lead as John paused to bend forward and expelled what he’d had for dinner. Seemed like he’d been fed well.

Finally, all the gunshots died. Arthur was stepping into a larger cave section when he heard the throaty hiss of some near-rabid Murfree somewhere nearby. “I like ‘im. Wanna keep ‘im alive.”

“Hell naw, I’m gonna shoot ‘im before. He’ll stay warm for a while.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about, Jackson. Feels best when the muscles can still move. Besides, I like it when they scream.”

Arthur shuffled forward, steps light, John at his back. Just around a dip in the rocks, Arthur saw the two Murfrees that had been fighting. Saw one of them on top of a struggling Dutch. Beyond them were five more shadows of men waiting for the show to start. The Murfree on Dutch pistol-whipped him until his struggling weakened. Then he took his knife and cut Dutch’s belt.

Arthur heard screaming, felt a vibration up his arms, realizing only after bullets were flying at him that he’d been the one screaming and the one shooting first. All he could think about was that Dutch was as helpless as he himself had been with the O’Driscoll’s, when Colm had tied him up and...

John’s gun began going off, sparks shooting in the corner of Arthur’s eye. The Murfrees dropped, dead or injured. A few ran deeper into the caves. The one that had pinned Dutch dropped beside him. Dutch tugged the gun out of the Murfree’s hand and pulled himself up on his elbow so he could see the bullet he shot tear through the Murfree’s brain. 

“Jesus, have you lost your mind?” John was shouting, coming out from behind cover. Arthur stood in the open, guns dropping to his sides, feeling the sting where a couple shots must have hit him. But he carried on forward anyway.

“Dutch,” he croaked. “Are you...did they...?”

Dutch wiped blood out of his eyes, leaving a streak of dirt in its place. A welt was swelling up on his forehead. “Boys...” he began, sounded relieved. It quickly turned to anger. “You boys could have been killed coming in like that!”

Arthur felt himself relax, remembering the trolly crash. Dutch had hit his head so hard he could barely form coherent sentences. If he was shouting, he was okay. 

“Yeah well Arthur has a death wish,” John griped, propping against the wall to catch his breath. He flinched with every one.

Arthur stumbled to Dutch’s side, stepping over the Murfree’s body and almost face-planting when his knees buckled. “Dutch, can you stand?”

Dutch rose, not bothering to take Arthur’s outstretched hand. It was obvious he wouldn’t be able to support the extra weight. Dutch patted himself, checking for his guns and then glancing over his body for wounds. His eyes ended up on Arthur’s.

“Son,” he said. “You’ve been shot.”

*

It was a grazing wound, one that scraped the bone of his thigh but passed through fat and muscle without much difficulty. He could feel blood pouring from the exit hold and down his calf, Dutch with one arm around his back and his other arm around the lockbox he had hidden when they’d first got to Beaver Hollow. Arthur was sweating. John was swearing. The uphill slope left them all gasping. Arthur began to cough when they got to the entrance.

“A little farther,” Dutch said, passing John the lockbox to get two arms on Arthur.

John tucked it under his arm, leaning far enough froward as they climbed the ridge to touch the ground. Arthur tried shrugging Dutch off him, nodding toward John, trying to get him to help the poor guy, but Dutch seemed to need to hold onto Arthur as much as Arthur needed it, whispering encouragement as they climbed that led into, “I would have died if you had. I would have sent John with the money and went after the bastards that shot you. If any survived, they would claim the Devil had come after them.”

Arthur leaned his head into Dutch’s neck, feeling his steps slow, feeling Dutch’s grip tighten. “You’re okay,” he said. “You hear me, Arthur?”

“I’m okay,” he agreed.

Dutch forced Arthur and John inside the coach, both of them muttering curses under their breaths as they settled on their backs. “I’ll get us out of here. They might come back with more men. Hang tight, both of you.”

The stagecoach lurched with all the power of Dutch’s panic behind it, the horses snorting, John groaning. Arthur rolled his head, finding John clutching the lockbox to his chest, eyes squeezed shut.

“You all right, Johnny?”

“Y-yeah. Think so.”

“That was stupid,” Arthur admitted. 

“The stupidest. Goin’ after Dutch Van der Linde of all people.”

Arthur managed a laugh, unsure if it was because Dutch had been worth it and John just hand’t realized it yet, or if Dutch was in fact the last person they should have saved.

Arthur’s mind slipped toward the future, wondering how many more people Dutch would kill out of spite, and how heavy their blood would feel on Arthur’s hands.


	31. Chapter 31

They had gone only a few miles, Arthur estimated, when the coach came to a slow stop. From his vantage point on the floor, all he saw was the jagged rise of trees against a starlit sky. John's breathing had steadied with the tug of sleep. Arthur had found himself too afraid to shut his eyes, instead putting pressure on his gunshot wound. He couldn't tell if it was exhaustion, lack of oxygen, or blood loss that made him dizzy. He only knew he wanted Dutch. 

And Dutch came. He popped the door by Arthur open, slowly peering inside as if fearing what he'd find. He met Arthur's opened eyes and then looked at John. 

"Is he...?"

"Asleep," Arthur said. 

Dutch nodded, seeming to swallow something lodged in his throat as he kneeled closer, lifting Arthur’s shirt. Arthur had been too rattled to look himself. Judging by Dutch’s face, he was glad he hadn’t. 

“Let’s get you out here so I can patch you up,” Dutch whispered, only glancing at his wounded leg. John had curled into Arthur’s side, his knees barring Dutch access.

Arthur sat up and slid out as gracefully as possible, which meant the whole coach shook and John was stirring and Dutch had to catch Arthur as he tried to stand and ended up collapsing. 

“I got you,” Dutch said, dragging Arthur to the front of the coach where his lantern cast the horses and the ground in ominous gold light. By the time they were at the driver’s seat, sweat rolled down Arthur’s forehead. Every step felt like a knife was driving into his thigh. Dutch glanced at the seat before motioning toward the ground. Arthur let his legs buckle and Dutch helped him lay flat on the grass.

Dutch disappeared out of sight, returning with the satchel the doctor had given Arthur before letting him escape. Dutch dumped it on the ground beside Arthur, fumbling through the contents and untangling one of the vials from the rough clump of bandages. 

“You still with me?”

Arthur gave a slow nod, shutting his eyes so he didn’t have to watch the canopy overhead spin. “Did I wake John?”

Dutch rucked his shirt up again. “He’s snorin’ up a storm. Looks like his bleeding has stopped, but I’ll check him again when he wakes.”

“Thanks, Dutch.”

Dutch titled the vial over Arthur’s side and let the contents dribble out. Arthur clenched his jaw, stifling a shout, and Dutch kissed his cheek. “Easy, baby.”

Arthur relaxed a little at that, but then Dutch was running fingers across the ravaged muscle of his outer thigh. He fought to keep from kicking Dutch with his good leg, barely managing it.

“Gonna have to get your pants off,” Dutch said.

“I don’t need to be shot for you to get me undressed,” Arthur murmured.

“Don’t I know it.” Dutch managed a laugh that died immediately upon Arthur yelping at the scrape of his pants against the bullet wound. “Sorry, sorry.”

He talked Arthur through a few deep breaths before letting the vial hover over the bloody hole in his leg. Arthur rolled his head, already grimacing. “Wait,” he blurted, “save some for John.”

“There’s plenty left. You’re just stalling.”

Arthur gulped. Then the liquid was streaming into his leg, every opened nerve ending screaming, Arthur screaming until Dutch trapped his lips with his own. The pain ebbed against a sharp spike of warm arousal. Only Dutch could make him forget such heinous pain.

Once the worst of it subsided, he was kissing back, slipping his tongue in Dutch’s mouth, desperate for more relief. Dutch went rigid. Then hummed against Arthur’s lips, opening wider and letting Arthur take control. As soon Arthur tried to roll Dutch onto his back, Dutch pulled away, breathless.

“Let me wrap this up,” Dutch said, easing back. 

“I thought I had lost you.” Arthur reached out, and Dutch squeezed his hand before lifting Arthur’s leg at the knee and wrapping a bandage around the wound, allowing Arthur the first glimpse at it. The twisted flesh, the clotting blood, the flash of white bone made his vision go dark.

*

Arthur didn’t remember making it back to the coach, but when he opened his eyes he was tucked under the bedroll at John’s side, the coach rattling as it rolled. He felt like he’d been run over by a train three times over, tried to stretch out the ache in his back but a sharper pain in his side stopped him.

John was paler than ever, but his eyes were open and alert enough to follow the turn of Arthur’s head. “I told ‘em I didn’t wanna share a bedroll until he got your pants back on, but you know Dutch. His way or no way.”

Arthur swallowed a groan as he shifted, now too aware of the feel of John’s hairy leg against his own. “And you decided to take your pants off too? You always did hate being left out of what I was doin’.”

“I couldn’t exactly help that you’d bled all over them.” 

“You coulda if you hadn’t been cuddling me earlier.”

“Oh, shut up, Morgan.”

Arthur laughed, surprised at how easy it came despite the pain, despite all the people dead and gone. On one hand, feeling even the slightest bit a joy left him guilty. On the other, it seemed a shame to take for granted what other people didn't have by not enjoying it. Perhaps, the week or month or year he had left could be spent enjoying what he felt he could not after Mary, Eliza, and Issac. Perhaps he could love as deeply and foolishly as before. It was this line of thought that made him speak.

“Sorry to have dragged you into that. I’m glad you’re okay, brother.”

John frowned. “Are you drunk?”

“No?” 

*

John had dropped off into a light doze when the coach stopped again. He woke at the sound of Dutch opening the door, and after a few bleary blinks grabbed the canteen Dutch offered, taking a long draw before passing it to Arthur.

“Where are we?” John asked. 

“Hopefully out of Murfree territory.” Dutch’s deep voice was rougher than usual, almost like it had been when he had been inside Arthur. It made Arthur choke on a gulp of water, sent him coughing and spitting, made all eyes jump to him.

Dutch had made his way around to Arthur’s door by the time he cleared the water from his lungs. “Just choked,” he said, waving Dutch’s hands away before they could get on him. 

“Okay,” Dutch said, dropping his hands only after glancing at John. “I’m gonna have to lay down for a little while. I’ll be right out here if you boys need me. Don’t try to get up, just holler.”

“I think I can sit up for a while if you need me to take us on,” John said.

“No, I want you to rest. Both of you. The horses need a break too. I’ll get us goin’ by sunrise. Should be just a few hours away. I think we can be in Valentine by evening.”

John eased once again onto his back, holding his breath until he was done moving. His sigh came out shaky.

"It's cold out there, Dutch," Arthur croaked.

"I'll be fine, don't you worry."

He wasn't worried. Sad mostly. He couldn't pull Dutch into his arms to warm him like he could a woman, couldn't offer to sleep at his side or get him into the coach without them being closer than deemed appropriate. It would always be this way, he knew. What wasn't proper to the outside would forever stay hidden.

"Get some sleep, boys."

*

Arthur rolled in his sleep, a sharp twinge of pain in his gut waking him. He palmed the bandages that wound around his side, feeling the warmth of blood. If he ever healed, the scarring would be worse than even John's wolf-bait face. It wasn't as if he thought himself attractive anyway, but somehow his chest and stomach had made it through the worst of the years unscathed until now. He didn't think it was possible for him to hate Micha more or to feel so vain, but he found himself imagining Dutch recoiling from the wound, closing his eyes while they fucked, and never getting his face close to that part of Arthur ever again. It was an odd thing to worry about in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere in the middle of a continuous battle with the Murfrees, but it pulled him out of the bed roll anyway and into the crisp night air.

Dutch was strewn across the driver's seat, hat over his face. He peered out from under it when he heard Arthur's footsteps. Groggily, he said, "what's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Arthur said, grabbing the seat and pulling himself up. Dutch curled his legs up, allowing Arthur space to sit.

"You sure?"

"I just...wanted to see you."

Dutch smiled at that, his starlight-illuminated eyes clearing. "Come here then."

Dutch pulled Arthur closer, pressing against the backrest to give Arthur room to stretch out in front of him, their bodies relaxing against each other's, Arthur catching Dutch's lips with his own before they had settled.

It was a slow, almost lazy kiss, even once their tongues were involved. Arthur pulled away with a gasp, realizing too late that his sight had gone blotchy. He couldn't hold his breath like he used to.

"Sorry," Arthur murmured. "Go back to sleep."

Dutch hummed, shutting his eyes and resting his forehead against Arthur's, hand roaming up Arthur's back. "I kind of rushed through it," Dutch whispered, "admitting I love you, I mean."

Arthur felt heat surge through him, all of it dropping into his stomach when Dutch continued.

"But I do love you. Romantically. Fatherly. Friendly. Brotherly. All of it. It's an odd combination, sure, but I've never felt anything so deep and satisfying in my entire life."

"Me too," Arthur said, even softer, because Dutch was already drifting back to sleep."

*

Arthur had kept his eyes and ears open, listening for any snap of branches or the abrupt stop in the crickets' songs. The arm pinned beneath him was numb to deadness, but Dutch was sleeping so peacefully that he dared not move. It was only when the first birds began to call at the promise of light that Dutch opened his eyes again. 

"Mornin, Darlin'," Arthur said.

A smile tugged at Dutch's lips, interrupted by a yawn that he released against Arthur's neck. The heat of his breath made Arthur shiver. A few moments later, Dutch cleared the sleep from his throat and said, "feels like you're happy to see me."

Arthur pushed his hips flush against Dutch's. Of course he was hard. Dutch could get him there in a matter of seconds by just being at his side, let alone breathing on his weak spots. Dutch pressed soft kisses to the hickeys that still lined this throat. After kissing every one, he began biting. Arthur wouldn't be able to explain to John why more bruises had suddenly appeared, but at the moment he was too blissed out to care.

"I'll never let you go," Dutch growled, moving down to bite at Arthur's collarbone. "Won't let anything take you away. Not even tuberculosis."

"Dutch," Arthur warned breathlessly. Dutch was making promises he couldn't keep, and when they were done screwing around, reality would drag them both deeper into sadness than they had been at the start. Arthur didn't want to think about dying, not while living felt so incredible.

Dutch rutted his hard cock against Arthur's. "I bought lube."

It was getting hard to think. "You...what?"

"In Annesburg. When I sent you and John ahead. I went and bought lube." Dutch tugged at the waistband of Arthur's underwear. "Wanna be close to you again. As close as I can get."

Nothing sounded better, not even the promise of heaven. If God existed and came down at that moment to offer Arthur passage, he feared he'd choose Hell just so he could stay a little longer with Dutch.

"John still asleep?" Dutch said.

Arthur nodded, throat dry. "T-think so."

"Then let me show you how much I love you."

Dutch freed Arthur's swollen cock and rubbed soft circles over the tip, Arthur's heart hammered. His hips twitched. He dug his nails into Dutch's wrist, desperate from more friction but aware that he was already dangerously close to cumming. Dutch was so warm, so soft and hard at the same time, so gentle with his hands while his eyes screamed of depravities. Dutch brought his own dick out, let it rub wet trails up Arthur's. Arthur wanted it to last but knew the sun would be over the mountain in another thirty minutes. The world would be waking up and might see them for who they really were.

Dutch released Arthur's prick to dig into his own pocket, pulling back with a small yellow tin labeled 'Petroleum Jelly.' Seeing it made Arthur's stomach clench. Dutch had went all out just to be with him.

Dutch unscrewed the top and ran a finger through the petroleum, shoving his hand past Arthur's cock and into his underwear. Arthur moaned at the feel of Dutch's finger against his hole. He relaxed as best he could and Dutch pressed the digit inside, Arthur arching to get it deeper.

"Eager, aren't you?" Dutch whispered.

Arthur gasped, heat coiling in his balls. Dutch pulled his finger back, slowly, and thrust it back inside. Arthur shifted until his cock was rutting against Dutch's again, until their lips met and Arthur could moan a little louder, knowing Dutch's mouth would keep it muffled. Dutch added a second finger, the sudden stretch making Arthur clench down. 

"I got you, baby," Dutch said, and Arthur relaxed, feeling Dutch press ever closer to his prostate but never quite reaching. He was whining like a dog by the time Dutch decided to pull his fingers free.

Arthur took a deep breath, rutting harder, Dutch working his underwear down to his ankles and then off his feet. The coach lurched as Arthur struggled to sit up and climb into Dutch's lap, but Dutch pushed him away.

"I said, I want to show you. Get on your back so I can."

Arthur took Dutch's warmed spot, nodding when Dutch asked if he was okay to lift his legs. Then his legs were being hoisted over Dutch's shoulders and his knees were at his ears. Arthur hadn't realized how flexible he was, or how perfect the position was until Dutch was thrusting inside, filling him up, and hitting his prostate dead on. Arthur's head flew back, his hands clawing into Dutch's clothes shoulders, hoping they said enough since Arthur was too breathless to verbally admit how fucking incredible it felt. How perfect. Like he was made for Dutch and Dutch for him.

Dutch moved slow after that, tender, as if feeling how close Arthur was to releasing. Arthur got enough air to groan, unable to keep them in once every leisurely thrust was hitting his spot. It was getting to be too much.

"Fuck me, Dutch. Harder."

"Yeah?"

"Fuck me like the whore I am."

Dutch's pupils blew wider, and then, as if he had been waiting for Arthur to demand it, plowed Arthur fast and hard, punching the air out of his lungs, hips losing their rhythm. He gripped Arthur's cock, almost painfully, and jerked. Arthur came, too breathless to scream anywhere but internally, ears ringing and white lights exploding behind his eyelids. Waves of pleasure sent him convulsing. Dutch froze, grip tightening, eyes screwing shut, face flushed as he started to spill inside Arthur. As soon as he knew there was no stopping it, he fucked Arthur hader, skin slapping skin, carriage rocking beneath them, a scream sticking in his throat as Arthur's body squeezed around his shooting load. He gasped, rolling his hips far beyond his usual ability, reveling in the pleasurably painful feel of overstimulation. He was too lost to stop, even as blood trailed out of Arthur's bandages. Even as Arthur lifted up on his elbows, glowing in the early morning light. 

Then terror washed across Arthur's face. Dutch craned his neck to see John, pale and slack-jawed, staring at them as if they had a gun aimed at his head.


	32. Chapter 32

John wasn't sure what woke him, but when he opened his eyes he found that he was cold, Arthur's spot was colder, and he had to piss more than he ever had in his life. The pain shooting through his torso was enough to bring tears to his eyes when he shifted toward the coach door. It wasn't quite light out, but close enough that he could see to get to nearest tree, so long as his body obliged. He would shoot himself before asking Dutch or Arthur to help him piss. Even when he'd been laid out by wolves, he'd get whoever to help him stand and then make his merry way to the back of the cabin on his own. Only once did he pass out before he got there, and Hosea never spoke a word of it once he woke him up and doing his business before putting him back on the cot.

The coach trembled, and he looked again to make sure they weren't moving. But everything else was still. He popped the door open gently, figuring Dutch was still trying to sleep, and wobbled into the chilled air. A few birds chirped overhead, and every now and then, he heard a soft breathy grunt. Panic knotted in his throat. Arthur. He'd been making those sounds when he'd hardly escaped Colm with his life, cursing in his cot and wallowing in pity when he thought everyone was sleeping. 

He was hurt.

John scrambled toward the noise, saw the top of Dutch's head. The bastard had finally snapped. Arthur was beneath him, struggling for breath. John reached for his gun to find it wasn't there but continued barreling toward Dutch, a plea or a damnation battling to leap from his mouth first.

"Fuck me, Dutch. Harder."

The words died on John's tongue. His steps faltered, but already he saw that Dutch didn't have pants on. Neither did Arthur. Arthur's legs were hiked up on Dutch's shoulders. The coach trembled with every thrust.

"Yeah?" Dutch hissed.

"Fuck me like the whore I am."

Instantly, heat shot into John's face, burning him from the inside out. He was dreaming. He was absolutely sure of it. There was no way Dutch and Arthur were doing /this/. But it kept happening, Dutch hammering into Arthur's ass, muscles flexing, sounds from the both of them getting more desperate. John had seen a lot, but never anything like this. It sent him into a strange whirlwind of emotions he couldn't quite place. Disgust. Dread. Jealousy.

Arousal.

It had been so long since he and Abigail had really made love. He had been feeling so lonely for so long, and behind his back Dutch and Arthur were--

Arthur gasped, toes curling, body twisting. It was a sound that made electricity shoot down John's spine. He shouldn't be hearing this. Shouldn't be hearing the slap of skin and Dutch's grunts. Shouldn't be seeing Dutch finish inside Arthur.

John met Arthur's eyes. The dread came rushing back. It was too late to scamper back to the coach like he'd seen nothing. Dutch stopped fucking Arthur to look back. Shock quickly turned into fury. 

"What the fuck are you doin'?" Dutch shouted, as though he himself was doing nothing of interest. As though it had been John caught fucking Arthur instead of him.

Dutch pulled out of Arthur, and John couldn't tear his eyes away from the cum spilling out of Arthur's battered asshole. Arthur grabbed his underwear and covered himself, leaving John feeling like he'd been punched in the stomach. What was wrong with him that he couldn't even see what Dutch got to know intimately? Dutch on the other hand rose without shame, cock swinging between his legs.

"I..." John began, stepping back. But his eyes kept catching on Dutch's cock. He had seen the man naked plenty of times, but never rock-hard and slicked wet. "I just...I thought..."

Dutch was growing soft, eyebrows turned down in a scowl, fists clenched as if ready to fight. So, it was an Arthur and Dutch only kind of thing, then. What else was new?

"Sorry," John blurted. "Sorry, I..." But then his senses came rushing back. His usual anger and vitriol. It wasn't his fault he had to piss. No one told him there was a party going on that he wasn't invited to. "Maybe if you two could keep it in your goddamn pants I wouldn't have caught you!" he snapped, heading on to the trees to relieve himself, hearing the rustle of clothes returning to bodies. 

John pulled himself from his underwear, too hard to piss and too annoyed with all of it to do anything but quickly jerk himself off so he could use the bathroom and get back into the warm hug of the bedroll.

*

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Arthur was hissing under his breath. 

Dutch ran a rough hand through his own hair, sitting down so he could get his pants on. It felt like they'd been caught murdering a child right in front of God himself. "You think he'll come back?" Dutch asked.

"I wouldn't if I were him."

"Me neither."

They sat in silence besides Arthur's coughing, eyes cast toward the trees John had vanished through. Arthur was the older brother, the one that was supposed to set a good example. He felt disappointment in himself, and even more when he imagined how disappointed John was. Dutch had erased some of the worry lines out of his face when he leaned into Arthur, giving him a quick peck on the lips before getting his boots on and corralling the horses. Arthur finally slipped his underwear back on, grimacing at the feel of cooled cum, but he wasn't about to go scouting for a stream in the buff while John was about.

He limped for the trees opposite of where John went and ended up finding a wide, slow moving river. He finally removed his shirt and stepped in up to his waist, taking his underwear off once he was under and rubbing the white marks out of the fabric. He wasn't sure why he was trying to hard to hide himself from John now. He'd already seen everything Arthur had to offer.

*

Dutch had the horses hitched to the coach when Arthur returned, steps dragging as the ache in his ass began to deepen. It was a good feeling, having been used by Dutch, but an annoying one when they still had long ride ahead. 

Dutch eyed Arthur and the dripping underwear he had put back on with a satisfied smile. "John's back." Arthur glanced around for him, eyes wide, breaths turning shallow. "He's in the coach."

"How...did he seem?"

Dutch's smile cracked in a laugh. "He was glowing."

"Glowing?"

"Tried to hide it with a scowl, but he takes after you. Man can't hide his arousal." 

Arthur choked, would have drowned himself if he'd been drinking. "What?"

Dutch dropped his voice. "Must have rubbed one out, judging by the glow, but you know how it is. Nothing like the real thing. I think he's jealous."

Arthur didn't believe it. Didn't want to. Dutch was /his/. Just because John was no longer the goldenboy didn't mean he could suddenly decide he liked men. Dutch would...Dutch always got what he wanted. Arthur didn't doubt he'd talked all the girls in camp into sharing his bed more than once, even when Molly had been in the picture. It was just what he did. Now he was...now he would...

"Arthur, come here," Dutch said, pulling him into a hug that was at first too tight until Arthur squirmed. "You have nothing to worry about. John's not the type to go blabbing. You know that."

"Yeah, I know."

"And I only have eyes for you."

Arthur pulled back to get a good look at Dutch's face, as though he could tell when the man lied. He had learned that wasn't the case weeks ago. "I know I've not been faithful in the past. But I've also never felt the love I feel now."

"You're just sayin' that because I'll be dead soon."

Dutch reeled, lifted a hand as if to smack the words out of Arthur's mouth before they could settle in his soul. But his hand dropped and so did his face. "You think that little of me?"

"I think that little of me," Arthur admitted, nearly blurting what his heart was screaming, that he was never good enough for anyone. Mary had married that wealthy Linton asshole. Eliza had gotten sweet on a man a few months before her death, no longer opening up her bedroom when Arthur came to visit. They had found the exact opposites of Arthur and settled down, acting happy in ways Arthur could never make them feel. It had torn a permanent hole in his heart. Dutch would be the one to widen it beyond repair. Heartbreak would kill him, not disease.

"I don't know how you can't see what I see," Dutch said. "And I've repressed these feelings for far too long to let some shallow desires ruin what I've found." Arthur opened his mouth but Dutch interrupted. "And before you ask, no I'm not currently feeling any shallow desires besides the ones I feel for you, the ones telling me to bend you over again, John be damned. I have a feeling that it will be you that grows tired of me. But me grow tired of you? Never."

Arthur dropped his head to Dutch's shoulder, pulling himself closer until he could feel Dutch's strong, steady heartbeat against his frantic one. "You always were good at sweet talkin'."

"And you were always good at telling the difference between my sweet talk and the truth. You know which one this is."

*

They rode toward Valentine in near silence, not stopping even to eat, which relieved Arthur more than words could describe. He didn't think he could bear sitting across a fire from John, could hardly handle knowing that John was in the coach, close enough to hear if he decided to start screaming his disapproval. God, he had been stupid, letting Dutch spread him open right there on the front of the coach, knowing in hindsight that the movement would wake John if the stifled screams didn't. He could hardly blame Dutch for lying to him, telling him John had gotten off on what he saw. It was the best way to ease his mind. The problem was, he didn't believe it for a second. Even if he had, Arthur knew him and Abigail hadn't been sleeping in the same tent for months. Sometimes in his dry spells, seeing two deer mate had got Arthur thinking enough about sex to jerk off before returning to camp. If John had gotten anything out of it, it was only by imagining him and a warm, soft woman in Dutch and Arthur's place. 

"Arthur, you're worrying over nothing," Dutch said. They were just passing Emerald Ranch and the Overflow. Despite all the hell that had happened, there were at least some good memories dotting the East. 

"What we are...it ain't good. I've accepted that. I just didn't want anyone else to know."

Dutch sighed. "Then it sounds like you haven't accepted it at all."

*

Valentine lurched up on the horizon, the sun setting at their backs. Already the air was easier to breathe, but a constant tickle had taken home in the back of Arthur's throat. Dutch pulled the coach to a stop by an abandoned farmhouse outside the town. The coach squeaked open and Arthur stiffened, unable to meet John's eyes as he walked around to face them.

"I'll bring Abigail and Jack out here. You all's faces are everywhere."

"That..." Dutch hesitated, glancing at Arthur. "That won't be necessary."

Now Arthur looked, at both of them. John looked almost offended. Maybe afraid. Like maybe after all that, Dutch wasn't going to let him go to his family.

Dutch hopped down, disappearing around the coach and returning with the lockbox. As they waited, John had been desperately trying to catch Arthur's eye, but Arthur had looked back at his hands, the hands that had gotten him into trouble more than anything else. It had never been Dutch. Not fully. Arthur had enjoyed killing at one point, when he was younger and angrier at the world. It seemed he had been the one to corrupt Dutch in the end. 

"Here, son." Dutch broke the lockbox open with his knife, dividing the money and handing a stack to John. John just stared at it.

"I can't...I hardly did anything to get us money. It was all Arthur."

"I know Abigail's been wanting an honest to God home to raise Jack in. Settle down with her. Enjoy life in a way I've never let you before."

John was looking over Dutch at Arthur, wide-eyed. Arthur cleared his throat. "Take it, John. You and her and Jack deserve the world. This won't get you that, but it'll help."

John released a shaky breath. "What about you two? You're my...you've been my family longer than they have."

Dutch looked back to give Arthur a smile full of anguish. "I'm taking Arthur south. As far as I can. Maybe, eventually, I can still get us a boat to tahiti."

John cracked a smile that looked as equally haunted. "You never were one to give up on somethin' once you set your mind to it."

"You're always welcome wherever we end up, John. You and your family. Your real family. Arthur and I will be waiting. But for now, do what's best for the people you love most."

John's jaws clenched. His chin trembled. Arthur slid off the driver's seat, nearly falling, but making it to John's open arms anyway.

"You're my brother," John croaked.

"I know."

"And I love--"

"I know," Arthur interrupted, afraid the words would release the tears he was so precariously holding back. "Me too."

Arthur pulled back, grinding his teeth hard enough to hurt. He wouldn't break down. Not now. He wanted John to believe that he would still be alive by the time he called for a visit.

John suck his hand out of Dutch to shake, and Dutch grabbed it only to pull him into a hug. The dam of John's tears shattered as Dutch spoke. "You will always be my son. No matter what happens."

John staggered away, giving Arthur one last pained look. There was so much left unsaid and they both knew it. But it seemed, after seeing what he had, John felt like Arthur was safe enough to go with Dutch alone and live happily ever after, whatever that meant.

Arthur was weak and shaking, and Dutch had to help him up to the seat again. As soon as John was out of sight, Arthur dropped his head in his hands and wept. It was grief he was feeling. Grief and the heavy pressure of unsaid words. He was sorry he had ever treated John like he didn't care. He was sorry he didn't tell Jack and Abigail goodbye. He was sorry that the hope he saw in Dutch's face would be torn apart when disease took Arthur's last breath. 

"Don't cry, love," Dutch whispered, whipping the horses on as if knowing another look at Valentine would break Arthur's feeble heart even further.

Arthur gulped for a breath. "I was happiest when it was all of us. Livin' as outlaws, stealin' from the rich and givin' to the poor. Savin' those as needed savin'. But I'm so glad I got you, Dutch." He pawed at Dutch's arm until he felt the man's warm fingers intertwine with his own. "I'm so relieved out of all the shit we been through that I have you lovin' me. If I didn't, I'd be already dead."

"And I, Arthur, would have lost my mind."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the next chapter will probably be an epilogue, and then the story will be finished.
> 
> Sorry this chapter got weird and then sad lol


	33. Epilogue

Dutch startled from a dream that felt too calm to be a nightmare but left him with a deep, tugging sense of foreboding nonetheless. 

He had been at the edge of a cliff, looking older than he should, worn, and bloody. Behind him stood John. Only when he turned from the cliff did he realize John had a gun. He knew he was going to die, so of course his last thoughts went to Arthur, to the time they had leapt from a cliff, unsure if they'd survive. Arthur had followed him anyway.

"I got a plan, John."

"You always got a plan, Dutch."

Dutch looked at the gun in his own hand, terrified by the presence of it, as though he had intended to shoot his own son. "This is a good one," he said. And tossed the gun over the cliffside.

"I don't doubt it."

"We can't always fight nature, John. We can't fight change. Can't fight...gravity. We can't fight nothin'. My whole life, all I ever did was fight."

"Then give up Dutch."

The speech kept coming, no matter how much he wanted to ask what was happening. Why John looked so upset. Why they both looked so old and worn. And where had Arthur gotten off too? "But I can't give up neither. I can't fight my own nature. That's a paradox, John. You see?"

"And I have to shoot you."

Why, Dutch wondered, but his mouth said, "when I'm gone, they'll just find another monster. They have to. Because they have to justify their wages."

"That's their business."

Dutch took a shuffling step back. His heels wavered on the edge of the cliff. He wasn't sure what he intended, but he knew he wanted to see the sky. See the men who died before him, who he had no doubt were watching. "Our time is passed, John," he said, and then he let himself fall backward.

Cold air rushed up his sides. The cliff drew farther away. But in the sky, his mother, Hosea, and Arthur stayed at the same distance, impossibly far either way.

When he shot up in bed, hands were on him instantly. The room was pitch-black, and for a moment he feared the dream had been a reality, that time had jumped forward and he had jumped to his death and that the afterlife was just darkness and a sharp ache where his heart had been.

But then he heard, "you okay?"

"Arthur?"

There was movement. A swish of a curtain being yanked back from the window. Reality came rushing back, and with it, a sense of peace the he often dreamed he had lost. Those dreams--the ones where Arthur stopped breathing--could without a doubt be called nightmares. 

It was still dark out, the wind scrubbing across the saplings they had planted once they'd cleared their debts with the previous owner. They weren't far from the mexican border, and even less far from the ocean, which they often walked to when Arthur felt up to it. Arthur rubbed a hand along Dutch's back, his profile visible in the flooding moonlight. Dutch leaned in and kissed him, cutting off his next words. He used his body to push Arthur back onto the bed. 

"You're shaking'," Arthur said, pulling back just an inch. "Wanna talk about it?"

"I saw you in the sky," Dutch croaked, aware his grogginess was making it sound crazier than it needed to be. "I think...I left you. And you died. And John...God. John was hunting me."

Arthur laughed, the rumble reverberating through his chest and into Dutch's. "He did say he'd hunt you down if you ever broke my heart. Leaving me would definitely do that." Arthur closed the distance again, opening his mouth to Dutch's tongue. Dutch was desperate now, drawing Arthur's leg over his hip, needing to get closer. It was never enough. No matter what they did, Dutch felt like he could never get as close to Arthur as his body demanded. It was like starving. A few bites here and there would keep you alive, but not well. He felt like he was some kind of sickness that only Arthur could make better.

Arthur was hard against him.

"We can't," Dutch said, hating that it was the truth. "The doctor said--"

"My lungs need rest. I know, I know." 

He sounded like a petulant child, and Dutch snorted. He was so glad for it. Because it meant that Arthur was getting better.

They had spent nearly six months at a sanitorium, spending every last cent to get Arthur collapse therapy. Dutch slept in a bedroll outside the sanitorium every night, staying at Arthur's side during visiting hours while they collapsed one of his lungs at a time, smothering the bacteria, giving the poor tortured organs a rest. When one lung healed they did the other. There was no promise it would work, but still, Dutch went out and did honest to god work when he could, determined to set them up comfortably for the rest of their lives.

Arthur had been released just a few weeks ago, still weak, but stronger than he had been since he was diagnosed. Dutch had hunted and cooked and brought in extra food to Arthur and the others on his floor, telling them the meager meals the sanitorium gave weren't going to help anyone gain wait. By the time they moved into their new home, which Dutch had surprised him with, he complained that Dutch was making him chubby. Dutch told him he kind of liked Arthur chubby, and Arthur complained no longer.

His soft lips trailed up Dutch's neck, sending him shivering. "I mean it Arthur," Dutch growled. "We can't."

They had planted apple and pear trees in their front yard, deciding that they could make a decent living out of selling them once they matured. It would take a while of course, but the saplings acted as a kind of unspoken promise. They would live to see the day they produced. 

"But I love you, Dutch."

"D-don't try to butter me up. Stop-ah-touching that."

"I've been cooped up in that god awful place for too long. I missed you."

Dutch rolled his eyes, as if he could forget all the times, against his better judgement, that Dutch had serviced Arthur when the nurses weren't looking. He had made a pact with himself that since Arthur finally seemed to be in the clear, he would be careful in ways he had never bothered before. He would be the bad guy. He would keep his own lust at bay. He would do what it took to get Arthur back to his old self so they could do all the dirty and loving things they wanted to for years and years to come.

"You know I missed you. And you know I love you. But I'm so pent up and probably collapse one of your lungs if I went at you now."

Arthur laughed against his chest, retracting his teeth to do it. "You're tellin' me I coulda just had you do all that fancy work? We could have saved a lot of money, Dutch."

"Well, I'm by no means a professional, even if I do my job with the confidence and vigor of one."

They were both laughing now, tears beginning to prick Dutch's eyes. He felt so good. Didn't think he'd ever felt better. He didn't deserve it. Not this relief this love or this life. But he had it all the same. And he cherished it.

Thinking back to the months leading up to the gang splitting felt like reliving someone else's life. The things he had done. The things he had said and the worse things he had thought. Whatever had been going on, seeing Arthur thriving allowed him some self-forgiveness. In that way, thanks to Arthur, he was redeemed. 

*

"Huh."

Dutch looked up from his coffee, Arthur staring at the telegram that had been slipped through their door.

"What is it, love?" Dutch asked.

Arthur smiled at something. Then read. "Dear Mister and Mister Tacitus Killgore. Stop. I hope this letter finds you two well. Stop. This is J.M. Stop. The missus and Jack would like to see you both. Stop. Here is our address. Stop. P.S.I found some of the gang. Stop. They can't wait to see you. Stop."

Dutch stood, stopping by Arthur to read over the card in his hand. "Huh, indeed. That's near Blackwater."

Arthur's face fell, only minutely, but Dutch was well versed in Arthurisms by now. He tapped Arthur's chin until Arthur looked up. "What's with the face, Morgan? You lost your sense of adventure?"

Arthur's smile returned slowly. "No. And I see you ain't lost your thirst for danger. They surely haven't given up on hangin' you."

"Well, lets go and see for ourselves. You go pack. I'll board this place up. Tell Mr. Livington I need some time off. I'll bet you ten bucks we'll have blooms on our trees when he get back."

"You got yourself a deal, Dutch. And I'll bet you thirty that we'll catch John spyin' on us again."

Dutch shook his head, laughing again. Laughter came so easily these days. "Forty says he asks to join us this time."

Three hours later, they were on the road, wagon packed and Copper Jr. settling in Arthur's lap. Dutch continually made fun of the name, knowing Arthur was capable of much more creativity. But Arthur had just smiled at the pup as it wagged its tail with such force that it kept rolling and told Dutch it never hurt to remember the ones that remained no longer. That everytime he spoke the name aloud, he felt like Copper's spirit was right there with him.

That night, Dutch had spoken to Hosea's spirit for the first time, hoping he too could feel something. "Hosea, I love our son. Bad as that sounds. But I have a feelin' you knew before I did. Seems like someone's gonna make me an honest man yet. We already got a dog. I guess next we'll find another vagabond kid to raise together. Just like the good 'ol days, huh friend? Just like the good 'ol days."

He hadn't heard Hosea reply, but from inside their new house, he heard Arthur call, "Dutch you gotta see this! Copper Jr. is chasin' his tail! It's so damn adorable I think I'm gonna die."

For the first time in a while, Arthur was joking about death. That was when Dutch knew everything would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where do I even begin?? You guys are the best readers ever. You all always made me feel awesome, and it was because of your support and kind comments that I kept going. 
> 
> I almost let Arthur die, not gonna lie. But it just seemed almost anticlimactic. Or insincere. I had heard about collapse therapy on a podcast called "This Podcast will Kill You" and looked it up to find that it existed in 1899. I knew then that Arthur would make it through.
> 
> This particular fic is over but don't fret! I plan on doing a multitude of one-shots of their lives after they dropped John off. I felt like this fic needed an ending sooner rather than later, as I need to do some serious work on my original content, and I was afraid if it got too long people would stop reading before they got the satisfaction of an ending.
> 
> You can find me on Twitter at https://twitter.com/nutmegalodon
> 
> If you'd like to support my original work, I have a book available on Amazon. The link is in my Twitter bio. I'd really appreciate it!
> 
> Love you all!!!!!


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